Lily of the Lamplight
by George deValier
Summary: WW2 AU. Austrian musician Roderich and German soldier Gilbert are forced into an army prison unit and a fight for survival on the Russian Front. But in the midst of blood and death and hell on earth, how long can they fight their desire for each other?
1. Chapter 1

_Pairing:_ _Gilbert Beilschmidt/Roderich Edelstein (Prussia/Austria)_

_Summary: WW2 AU. Austrian musician Roderich Edelstein and German soldier Gilbert Beilschmidt are forced into an army prison unit and a fight for survival on the Russian Front. But in the midst of blood and death and hell on earth, how long can they fight their desire for each other?_

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><p><em>This story is part of my ongoing Hetalia WW2 AU, the Veraverse. It stands on its own, however if you are interested, check out my profile page for other fics in the series.<em>

_A thousand thanks must go to my wonderful beta Kay (/u/2680825/) This story would have not been written if not for you, my dear. Thank you for first putting the idea for a PruAus in my head all those months ago, for your brilliant ideas and for listening to mine, for looking over my drafts and making them better, and for putting up with my terribly slow message replies. All the best ideas in here belong to you, and all remaining mistakes are mine._

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><p><em>WARNINGS: This story will be darker than the others in the series. Warnings mainly for language and attempted sexual assault.<em>

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><p><em>watch?v=YGvrCvEmaMI_

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><p><em>Summer, 1943<br>The Russian Front_

_._

Roderich tried to focus on the bowl of food before him. Well, it was alleged to be food. It was actually some sort of grey sludge, like a revolting mixture of three month old caviar and the icy mud that collected in Vienna's street gutters in winter. It was making him sick to look at, so he chanced a furtive glance around the long, battered, crowded town hall instead. The windows were smashed, the furniture broken and overturned, the walls imprinted with bullet holes. A sweating, shouting mass of soldiers filled the temporary mess hall. Most of them had finished eating and were talking amongst themselves, but when a nearby soldier looked over at Roderich and laughed, the rest of his small group quickly did the same. Roderich immediately looked down again, his cheeks burning, the cold, nauseous churning in his stomach refusing to subside. He focused again on the hideous sludge in his bowl.

It was only Roderich's second day here. His second day in this dirty makeshift encampment in this dirty abandoned village. His second day surrounded by unfamiliar tanks and trucks and weapons, by loud, dirty German soldiers who had been fighting on this front for years and who couldn't seem to stop staring and laughing at the new recruit. Of course people were often discarded to the Russian front – it was a convenient punishment to keep the jails empty. No questions were asked, no training given, no briefing or reason or explanation. Roderich had simply been given a uniform, given a gun, and then thrown to the wolves. He shifted uncomfortably at the unfamiliar, scratchy feel of his dreadfully ugly grey uniform. The men around him were dressed practically identically, although Roderich was slowly starting to learn the subtle signifiers of things like different ranks and marks of bravery. No one seemed likely to explain these things to him, after all.

Roderich's skin crawled uneasily when he realised that the nearby group of soldiers were still staring at him, talking about him, not even bothering to keep their voices down. "Have you seen the new recruit? It's a joke. This unit's getting desperate, I tell ya. Next thing we'll be letting the Jews in."

The hair stood up on Roderich's neck and he swallowed a brief wave of fear. If it ever got out… if anyone here found out… He took a few deep breaths. And tried to tell himself that he had a chance here. As hopeless as this seemed, he still had a chance to survive. Not a very big one, true. But even the Russian Front was better than a train to Auschwitz.

"The Austrian didn't volunteer. They say his music was a favourite of the Führer, but then he pissed off the wrong people somehow. Punishment – the Front."

"Musician, huh? That pretty boy won't last a week."

Roderich's face burned angrily. How was this happening? How was he here? Only two days, and yet this was a world away from his life only a week ago. From his successful career as a composer, his beautiful house in Vienna, his music and piano and concerts and dinners… how had it all gone to hell? For what? A tiny voice answered him..._ For your stupid principles_. Roderich's spectacles started to fog and suddenly he was furious. He had done nothing wrong. He did not deserve this. His hands started to shake. He wanted to scream, he wanted to fight, he wanted to throw this repulsive bowl of grey slush against the wall... Roderich startled when someone suddenly sat heavily against the wall beside him.

"Well, hello there."

Roderich turned to glare at the soldier. His grin was too cheerful for this place, his hair was so pale it was white – but it was the eyes that made Roderich pause. Such incredibly unusual eyes - startling even - bright and intense and such a deep bronze they were almost red. By the time Roderich thought to respond, he realised he had stared too long, so he simply looked away. He had no idea how to act around these men. Roderich could usually hide behind his haughty, aristocratic demeanour to avoid speaking with people. When it was absolutely necessary, he usually only had to answer questions about his music, which he could do. But here there was no orchestra on the stage or string quartet in the corner; no talk of Mozart interpretations or the latest opera performances to fall back on. So he just stayed silent.

The man beside him continued, seemingly unfazed at Roderich's silence. "Héderváry, wasn't it? Roderich Héderváry."

Roderich felt only the slightest twinge of surprise. After three years, he was almost used to being addressed by his wife's name. He was sure it had not been mentioned here, however… "How do you know my name?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, I… must have overheard it." The soldier continued quickly. "I'm Private Beilschmidt. Call me Gilbert."

Roderich raised one eyebrow. He noticed that the front of this soldier's uniform was covered with medals, more than Roderich had yet seen on any other enlisted man here. How was he only a private? Roderich realised he was staring again and hastened to respond. "No, I don't think I shall."

Gilbert seemed to find that amusing. He nodded to Roderich's bowl. "You're not eating."

"This is not food."

"It's the closest you're gonna see for a while, friend."

"I am not your friend."

"No, but you are a bit of a stuck up little shit, aren't you?"

Another wave of anger surged through Roderich's veins. He had never been spoken to like that. What an uncouth, distasteful, disagreeable gentleman… Roderich tried to summon the courage to respond angrily, but once again, he just looked away. He told himself it was because it wasn't worth it. He refused to admit it was because he was afraid.

"You should eat, though." Did this barbaric soldier actually sound concerned? Roderich shook the idea from his head. No one cared about anyone out here.

"The very notion disgusts me. I couldn't possibly eat this."

"This ain't exactly the Ritz, little prince. Eat now or you'll regret it."

Roderich's anger overrode his fear and he glared disdainfully at the grinning, too-cheerful German. "Who do you think you are? Do not dare to give me an order."

Gilbert laughed again, loudly. "Oh, you really have no idea, do you. This is the army you're in now. Better get used to taking orders. Of course in the end it's up to you, but if you keel over from starvation ain't no one gonna carry you on their back."

Roderich's glare darkened. "I thank you for the advice. But I also thank you to keep it to yourself."

Gilbert just kept laughing and Roderich clenched his fists. What, did this man think this was all a joke? Did he have some strange, twisted sense of humour? "Just what are you doing here, little prince? I'm guessing you didn't volunteer."

"No." Roderich left it at that. It was none of this man's business to know why he was here. He looked away again, eyes darting once more toward the nearby group of soldiers who were still laughing and talking about him far too loudly. Roderich looked down and shifted uncomfortably. He glanced shortly, uncertainly at the man by his side. There was no one else to ask after all… "Why... why do they keep looking at me like that?"

Gilbert did not laugh this time. "Well, there ain't many women out here, you know. And you're a damn sight prettier than anything we've seen for a while."

Roderich felt his limbs turn rigid and his throat turn dry. The way they were laughing, staring him up and down… Roderich was shocked, then disgusted, then alarmed. Then he looked again at Gilbert. Roderich's eyes widened, he shrunk into himself and leant as far away as he could manage. Gilbert just scoffed dismissively.

"Settle down, sweetheart. I'm not after anything. Just giving you a warning to watch your back. And keep your rifle on you."

Brief relief, but then Roderich looked down at the rifle by his side. And again he was terrified. He did not even know how to use it. Oh, he was in so far over his head. How had he ever let himself end up in this situation? He shouldn't have said anything, should have kept quiet… That irritating little voice nagged at him again. _Should have let them use your music as Nazi propaganda?_ Even as he thought it, Roderich knew that was never an option. Even if he lived as a coward in hiding, he could never let himself become involved in that. And especially not his music – the most important thing in his life. He would die first. He almost laughed at the irony. After all, he probably would.

"We'll be pushing out tomorrow," said Gilbert quietly. Roderich had almost forgotten he was there. His head turned light and blurry.

"Oh. So soon?"

"We've been here for three days. It's not soon."

Roderich knew nothing about that. "I suppose not."

"Have you…" Gilbert again sounded almost concerned. "Have you been given any basic training?"

Roderich shook his head.

"Someone want you dead or something?"

Roderich's eyes flashed to the soldier who had made the comment about Jews earlier. "Quite a few people, I believe."

"Just try and stay at the back, yeah?"

Roderich felt dizzy. Why wouldn't this man leave him alone? Roderich glared at him, then very deliberately placed his bowl on the ground and stood. "I think I need…" _I need some air, I need to breathe, I need this to stop, I need to wake up in my own bed and have this awful nightmare finally stop twisting the world around me…_ "I need to go away."

.

Roderich marched swiftly out of the busy hall. He needed to get away, but there was nowhere to go. He was stuck in this mass of men, stuck in this living nightmare. He was in the German army now, and there was nowhere to go anymore but where he was told. He walked as far from the crowd as he could, out into the cool, dark night, across the narrow road and into the space behind one of the small wooden houses that lined the road. This village was barely even worthy of the name – it was little more than a single town square surrounded by fences of wire. Pools of bright light from military vehicles and spotlights cut through the town, but it was dark and unseen where Roderich stood behind the little house. He leant his head back against the wood and closed his eyes. It was almost quiet now. Of course, the air was still filled with the noise from the mess hall and the roaring of engines and the occasional shout from guards around the fenced perimeter, but it was the closest to silence Roderich had experienced all day.

Roderich was just starting to feel like he could breathe properly when a blast of sound exploded from a nearby truck. The blast immediately softened and evened into the recognisable sound of a crackling radio, and other trucks quickly followed suit. Soon the sound poured through the narrow streets, the voice of the radio announcer drowning out even the noise from the hall. _"It is 9:55pm and this is Radio Belgrade, signing off. But finally, again tonight, we have Lale Andersen with 'Lili Marlene...'" _The noise from the hall flared briefly in a cheer, then fell quiet as the music flowed through the tiny village.

Then Roderich could breathe again. It was a manipulative marching tune, a sickly sentimental popular song manufactured for the masses. But it was strangely charming, and the untrained voice was honest and sweet; and it was music, so Roderich craved it. He drank it in, felt that voice soothe his shaking nerves; the strident brass shiver down his spine, the marching beat thrum with his heart into his veins. He almost breathed it, and as he did, his fingers ached for the smooth, yielding touch of piano keys or the strong, familiar pull of violin strings. How long had it been… a week? A lifetime. Roderich lost himself in these too short minutes of music, in these sad and pointless lyrics.

_Underneath the lantern, by the barrack gate,  
>Darling I remember, the way you used to wait.<br>_'_Twas there that you whispered tenderly,  
>That you loved me, you'd always be,<br>My lily of the lamplight,  
>My own Lili Marlene.<em>

When finally the music stopped and the night turned silent, Roderich gasped aloud and almost reached out to bring it back. But then the cold world came flooding back - the lights of the tanks and the roar of the soldiers in the distant hall - and he sighed in frustration, covering his face with a shaking hand. The silence he had craved moments ago was now agonising. How was he supposed to survive out here without music?

"Why hello, pretty Austrian."

Roderich dropped his hand and pulled himself upright. His chest constricted and his stomach turned cold as three soldiers rounded the corner of the wooden house, striding towards him, their laughing, leering faces just visible in the filtered glow from the light-flooded town square. Roderich recognised them as the soldiers who had stared at him earlier in the hall. Gilbert's words suddenly rang though his head _… you're a damn sight prettier than anything we've seen for a while... _and Roderich felt panic rise in his chest. He immediately turned to run, but the men were too fast. A shout caught in Roderich's throat when he felt his wrist grabbed roughly. He was slammed face first against the wall of the house, his arm twisted painfully behind his back. He tried to strike back with his other arm, but it was grabbed just as quickly and also pinned to his back. He couldn't move. The soldier's grip was like iron. Fire blasted through his head. The men laughed behind him and a hot, oily voice spoke beside his ear.

"Now, now, none of this. It's no use anyway, and you don't want to hurt yourself, pretty Austrian."

Roderich fought to keep calm, even as his pulse pounded hazy and unreal in his ears. He responded evenly. "Unhand me immediately, you perverted scoundrel, or I shall…"

"Shall what?" Roderich's lungs squeezed the breath from him when a hand snaked around his hip and wandered over his waist. He struggled again against the grip, but was just pressed bodily to the wall in response. He shuddered in disgust at the heavy weight against his back.

"Doesn't look like he has a pistol," said the soldier, removing his hand.

"Get on with it, then," responded one of the others.

Roderich felt the hand on him again, this time fumbling with the buckle of his belt. Icy fear clawed at his throat as his mind finally managed to acknowledge what was happening. He opened his mouth to scream.

A gunshot tore suddenly through the air. The man behind him jumped, his grip slackened, and Roderich used all his strength to twist in the man's grasp and get his back against the wall. To his surprise, the soldier released him, and Roderich prepared to run. He stopped when he followed the soldiers' blank stares. His stomach shot into his throat.

"Not a good idea, boys." Gilbert, the white-haired soldier from the hall, stood pointing a pistol in the attacker's direction.

The attacker snarled back at him. "Wait your turn Beilschmidt, you crazy fuck, and lower your goddamn pistol…"

"No, I don't think so, Müller. You're gonna stand there and you're gonna listen to me. All three of you." Gilbert nodded at Roderich. "You ain't gonna touch him now, and you ain't gonna touch him any time in the future. You got it?" Gilbert spoke easily, sounded almost friendly, but even in the filtered light Roderich could see those striking eyes blazing red. The effect was astonishing.

Müller practically spat his response. "What the fuck, what's your…"

Gilbert took a few steps towards Roderich, the pistol still aimed at Müller, his blazing eyes still glued to the three men. "He's mine. No one else's. Understand?"

Roderich was both affronted and relieved, the terrified nausea turning to something else. But he didn't think he could speak, and didn't know if it was a good idea if he did. The three soldiers glared at Gilbert furiously.

"He's yours since when, Beilschmidt? He's been here what, a day?"

"Two, and obviously you're a bit late. If I find you even looking at Héderváry again, it'll be you up against that wall, and it'll be something a little different to what you're used to up your arse." Gilbert waved the pistol threateningly. Müller opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by a sudden loud shout.

"BEILSCHMIDT!" Everyone turned in direction of the voice. Two officers charged towards them from the street, a small group of armed soldiers with pistols drawn following behind. "Drop your weapon now!"

Gilbert swore and dropped the pistol before lifting his hands and shrugging nonchalantly. "Hey, no need to overreact…"

"What was that gunshot earlier?" The officer at the front, a colonel if Roderich remembered correctly, had his hands on his wide hips and a furious expression on his fat, red face.

Gilbert shrugged again. "Just practicing my aim."

The colonel glanced at the captain beside him before looking to the three soldiers who had attacked Roderich. Müller gave a short, glinting, slowly brightening sideways glance at Gilbert. Roderich shuddered unpleasantly at the man's sinister smirk. "Actually, the crazy bastard shot at us, sir."

Gilbert's eyes flashed; his nostrils flared. "That's a lie."

"It's not a lie," said one of the soldiers.

"It's the truth," added the other.

Everyone looked at Roderich. His head was hazy, everything was happening so fast; this was too hard to understand, to comprehend… "It is a lie," said Roderich, surprising himself at the evenness of his reply. "It's as Gil… as Beilschmidt says. He did not shoot at anyone."

Gilbert spread his hands and smiled. Müller took a step forward. "Of course he would say that. Considering the position we found these two in moments ago."

"Position?" asked the colonel, looking from Müller to Gilbert.

Gilbert's smile faltered. "I don't know what he's talking about."

Müller smirked again. "We were just walking through the square when we heard noises coming from back here. We came to see what was happening when we found Beilschmidt here with this new Austrian up against the wall. We shouted out and Beilschmidt turned and shot at us. It's as simple as that."

Gilbert's face twisted in indignant fury. "Oh, that is BULLSHIT!"

"That is not the case…" started Roderich.

"Have a look at his trousers, sir," Müller interrupted, smiling sickeningly at Roderich. "They're undone."

Roderich's blood burned with sick fury as everyone followed Müller's stare, looking openly at Roderich's undone belt and half opened trousers. He felt disgusted with shame, overcome with an undignified embarrassment that crawled into his skin and rose like bile in his throat. He tried to turn from their stares, to hide himself from their accusations. Why should he care… these people were nothing… he was better than this… oh Lord, he was standing in a dirty backstreet in a Russian village with unbuttoned pants and the accusing stares of a group of uncouth commoners... Roderich pulled his jacket close around him. His eyes started to sting but he refused the tears. This was shameful enough.

"They're undone," spat Gilbert through gritted teeth, "because these sick fucks were about to…" Gilbert's eyes flicked briefly to Roderich. "…attack this guy before I turned up and shot my pistol to interrupt and stop them."

The officers looked skeptical, especially when Müller spread his hands and said, "Sir, you're going to believe Beilschmidt over the three of us?"

The colonel nodded angrily. "He has a point, Beilschmidt. This has to be the twelfth serious incident you have been involved in this month."

The captain added, "And I thought you said earlier that the gunshot was you practicing your aim?"

Gilbert was almost red with fury. Roderich did not know what to think or feel. Everything was settling into a sort of numbness. "Well, I said that, but…"

"Enough, Beilschmidt." The colonel was fuming. "I am sick of it. I am sick of this. Last time was that brawl three nights ago…"

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Keller started that brawl, the bastard insulted my brother, and only I'm allowed to do that…"

"And the time before that was on the road last week…"

Gilbert threw his hands up. "That corporal stole my last cigarette ration!"

The colonel continued. "And how can we be expected to forget what you did to Private Schmidt at Dolgova village?"

Gilbert's expression changed. Now he did not just look furious. He looked murderous. His eyes again flashed red and his lips drew into a snarl. When he spoke his voice was curiously flat. "Did you see what that sick fuck did to that Russian girl? A few broken bones and an eye patch for life is nothing to what that piece of rotted shit would have got if I'd been able to finish what I started on him."

Roderich got the feeling this was not the right thing to say. The officers glanced at each other, then glared again at Gilbert. "This is one step too far, Beilschmidt. We have an armed punitive guard coming through tomorrow morning before we push out. They'll be heading on to the prison unit stationed at the next village. After this latest incident, you'll be going with them."

The numbness broke and Roderich was left weak and breathless. He did not know how to feel about this strange man. He was loud and overbearing and terribly uncivilised. He had also just saved Roderich from a fate he would rather not think about, and beyond the exterior, he seemed to be the only decent man in this place. Roderich did not know Gilbert, had barely spoken to him, and yet the thought of being left here without him was terrifying. He stared at him, wide-eyed, overwhelmed.

Gilbert looked stunned. "I've done nothing. I've done nothing wrong here, you can't just send me to a punitive unit! You have to accuse me, there has to be a trial, this is fucked up and illegal and…" It was no use. The armed guards had Gilbert quickly in handcuffs. He growled at the officers, glared at the laughing Müller and his friends. "You filthy swine. Doesn't military law mean anything any more…"

"What about the Austrian?" asked one of the military guards. Gilbert broke off. Roderich froze.

"Arrest him too," said the colonel, waving a hand dismissively as he turned to leave. "He's no use to us."

"No," said Roderich reflexively as cold handcuffs were clapped on his wrists. Too much fear, too much confusion…

Gilbert shouted. "Fuck you, we've done nothing wrong! You can't do this, you fat lazy arsehole son of a…" Roderich felt his gut wrench when a guard slammed the butt of his gun between Gilbert's shoulders, sending him stumbling to his knees. He was immediately wrenched again to his feet as the colonel spoke to the guards.

"Take them to the cells. Tomorrow, hand them to the prison guards. The charge is perpetration of illicit activity." The colonel turned and glared disdainfully at Gilbert, a tiny smirk on his lips. "Congratulations, Beilschmidt. You're now a walking dead man."

.

_Four years earlier  
>Berlin<em>

_._

Gilbert pushed through the crowd of people clustered around the door and was immediately assaulted by the sound of bright, cheerful cabaret music, of loud speech and laughter, of heels clacking rhythmic patterns onto the polished floor. Thankfully the light in here was not the blinding glare of most cabarets, but just bright enough to throw moving, walking, dancing shadows onto the walls. A spotlight shone onto the stage, illuminating a pretty blonde performer in too much makeup and not enough clothes. Gilbert stared for a few moments then stumbled towards the bar. What was this, the fourth bar this evening? The ninth? The twenty-third? But Gilbert could still feel his limbs and the room was not yet turning upside down, which meant that this bar would not be the last.

Gilbert again pushed through the crowd, past soldiers in uniform, men in dresses and women in suits, all blending together in the richly decorated cabaret. Garish lighting fixtures and rich fabrics draped the wide, open space; champagne flowed freely; constant, unending music and singing and dancing came from the wide, prominent stage. Outside these walls, control was tightening, rumours were growing, war was beginning. But in this little corner of Berlin, people were drinking and dancing, laughing and kissing; forgetful or willfully ignorant of the changing world outside.

Gilbert had barely reached the bar before he stopped abruptly, struck still by possibly the most intriguing sight he had seen tonight. An ornately decorated lamp cast a soft pool of light directly around a young gentleman at the bar. He wore a perfectly pressed suit of old-fashioned style, with a high collar and a purple cravat. His hair was a rich, dark brown, falling straight over his ears with a few odd little curls. He perched rigidly on the edge of the barstool, his fingers barely brushing his glass; his arms held close to his sides and his anxious eyes darting nervously behind his glasses. He looked like he was trying to touch as little of his surroundings as possible. He looked like a little prince taken a wrong turn into the wrong place. He looked like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Gilbert felt his eyes flash, his lips twitch, his shoulders square and straighten as an almost predatory instinct surged through his veins. He grinned to himself, took a few firm steps towards the lost little prince, then staggered to a halt when a hand of iron gripped his shoulder. A voice growled threateningly behind him.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Gilbert spun around so fast he nearly fell flat on his arse. "Jesus Chri…" He choked off mid-blasphemy and his chest lurched in shock. "Eliza?"

Elizaveta Héderváry. Childhood friend. Worst enemy. Beautiful Magyar goddess. Scary, scary bitch. She smiled at him, teeth bared like a lion with her mane of thick, tawny locks; her green eyes flashing with a familiar mixture of anger and amusement. "Gilbert Beilschmidt! What the fuck are you doing about to hit on my husband?"

"Your…" Gilbert looked from Elizaveta to the man at the bar and back again. Then he broke into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Elizaveta put a hand on her hip and rolled her eyes. "_Husband?_" Gilbert managed to choke out the word. "Your… oh, come off it darling, you're not serious!"

"I'm not? And don't call me darling, you son of a bitch." Elizaveta looked just as Gilbert remembered from teenage summers spent on the Austro-Hungarian border. True, she was wearing a men's style black suit and tie instead of the old denim overalls he remembered fondly, but she had the same strong, assured, just-try-and-fuck-with-me manner that Gilbert remembered so well. He found himself easily slipping into his old teasing demeanour.

"Come on, Eliza. How old is pretty boy over there? Fifteen?" Gilbert gasped suddenly, horrified. "Oh Lord, Francis is having a bad influence on me…"

Elizaveta groaned and shook her head. "Eighteen, actually."

"Bit young for you, isn't he?"

"Oh, but then I was too young for you, Gilbert," said Elizaveta sweetly.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes. "You took advantage of me," he muttered.

Elizaveta laughed in that familiar, airy way. "You loved it. What the hell are you doing in Berlin?"

"Drinking steadily, actually."

"Have one with me then." Elizaveta dragged Gilbert through the crowd to the large square-shaped bar in the centre of the room. Shelves of differently shaped and coloured bottles filled the centre space and the actual bar was covered with vases of long-stemmed white lilies. A pretty blonde bargirl bounced over immediately, flashed Elizaveta a bright smile, and leant over far too close to take her order. A moment later a stein of beer and a glass of water appeared before them. Gilbert eyed the water disdainfully, but Elizaveta pushed it insistently towards him. "Humour me, darling. Have one at least."

Gilbert drained the water and motioned for a beer. "You're not going to join your husband? Poor thing looks terribly lost on his own over there. Someone of ill intent might see fit to take advantage."

Elizaveta raised an eyebrow. "I believe I just prevented that little situation." She took a deep swig of beer and peered at Gilbert over the rim of the glass. "You look like hell."

Gilbert just grinned. "I'm celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

"My last night of freedom. I've given in and joined the army."

Elizaveta's eyes hardened, her mouth setting into a solid line. Her body almost shook as she glared with fiery eyes, shoulders tense and hands clenched. She shook her head once, a short sharp twist of disappointment. "Oh, Gilbert. How could you?"

Gilbert ignored her and focused instead on the beer placed before him. "Don't start."

"What did your grandfather say?"

Oh, what didn't he say... "It doesn't matter. It's none of his business. I'm sick to death of his whole 'when I fought in the Great War' nonsense."

"And Ludwig?"

"He's joining the Luftwaffe in a month, the day he is old enough to be accepted. You know Ludwig. His heart, his soul, his blood for Germany." Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Even tried to join the Hitler Youth before Grandfather knocked some sense into him."

Elizaveta winced and glanced away. "He doesn't understand."

"Of course he doesn't, and neither do you, and I don't expect you to. You are not a German."

Elizaveta looked across the room to her husband and back. "Maybe that's why I understand better than you, Gilbert."

Gilbert pretended that he did not know what Elizaveta meant. He nodded towards where Elizaveta's beautiful husband still sat looking lost at the bar. People shot him admiring glances as they passed, but he did not seem to notice. "What's the name of the little prince, then?"

"Roderich," said Elizaveta after a brief pause.

Gilbert tilted his head just slightly. "Roderich?"

"Roderich Héderváry," said Elizaveta smoothly, expressionlessly.

Gilbert blinked at her blankly. Why was this new husband taking Elizaveta's name? "Excuse me?"

"That's his name." Smoothly, blankly.

"Okay, right. So he's trying to hide his name. What is it? Goldstein or something?"

Silence. Elizaveta glared at Gilbert coldly before answering. "Edelstein."

Gilbert froze for a moment, then his eyes widened in shock. He hadn't for a second actually thought... "Oh, Eliza."

Elizaveta practically snarled at him. "What?"

"And you married him?"

Elizaveta looked furious. "Yes, I married him! Why wouldn't I marry him? What are you going to say, that I've dirtied myself, that I've lowered myself to marry a Jew, is that what you…"

"Oh, shut it Eliza, that's not what I mean! Don't you see the danger you've just put yourself in?"

"He's a brilliant man, you know, Gilbert. He's been famous in Austria since he was a child. He plays dozens of instruments and he's simply a genius composer. He's been commissioned to write music for the state even. His work is important, and that's why he has to continue it, because we can't let this system - the system you've just sold yourself to - we can't let it break down and destroy everything…"

Gilbert did not even care. An Austrian, a musician, so what… "Doesn't he care about your safety at all?"

"Of course he does, and that's why…" Elizaveta broke off abruptly and looked into her drink.

"That's why?" prompted Gilbert.

"That's why I'm leaving. Of course I don't want to go. I told him I would stay by his side. But he refused." Elizaveta looked angry, the way she always did when trying to hide her emotions. "I married him to protect him. Thanks to me he has a name to hide behind and papers proving a line of Aryan heritage. But he only accepted on one condition - that I leave to Switzerland. His family has an estate there, in a little town on the border with Liechtenstein. I leave tomorrow."

"Ah." Gilbert drained his beer then reached for Elizaveta's, finishing it as well. He paused to catch his breath before continuing. "Smart thing to do, really. Marry a Jew, leave him your name, then bugger off to a nice neutral little spot to ride out this whole catastrophic disaster."

"You're a bastard, Gil. A complete and utter one."

Gilbert shrugged and motioned for more beer. "I'm honest. Few people are. But who knows? Maybe you'll meet a charming little Swiss girl with plaits and a basket who likes to yodel on mountaintops."

Elizaveta stayed silent, and Gilbert wondered if he should be angry at himself. But he was just angry at this situation and what it was forcing people to do. Everyone always said he was a bastard. Antonio had screamed it at him when told of Gilbert's intention to join the German army; Francis had muttered it quietly, laughing, when he stepped onto the last train bound for Paris. And even Elizaveta said it, who understood that Gilbert was just angry and didn't know how to express it. Eventually she stared up at him sideways, her eyes narrow, with what could have been a smile or a snarl on her lips.

"You're a bastard, Gil, but regardless... do be careful."

Gilbert flashed Elizaveta a brilliant, wide grin. "Don't worry, my dear. It'll take a row of tanks to bring me down."

They drank together a little longer, speaking of silly little things, of nothings; and as Elizaveta's green eyes shone in the dim cabaret light, Gilbert was reminded of long ago sunny days by sparkling lakes and stormy afternoons under overhanging rocks. Despite their past arguments and shouting matches and occasional full on brawls, Elizaveta meant more to Gilbert than any woman he had ever known. It was strange, this feeling. To know that they were saying goodbye forever, yet neither able to admit it.

The music stopped and the crowd cheered, the singer on stage bowing to the audience. "Thank you my dears! Oh stop, you're too gorgeous, really, you're beautiful." Gilbert realised that the blonde performer he had thought was a woman was actually a pretty young guy in drag. But then this was the Berlin cabaret, after all. Gilbert laughed as he wondered how Ludwig would react to all this. It would be a few years before his oblivious little brother figured out what had been obvious to Gilbert for years. The blonde performer continued, "I don't normally do this, but I figured why not - let's take a request! Come on darlings, throw it at me!"

The crowd was almost unanimous in their decision. _"Lili Marlene!"_ they shouted raucously. A young man with shoulder-length brown hair took a lily from a vase on the bar and threw it onto the stage. The performer winked at the brunet, then picked up the lily and gestured to the band. His accent was rather unfamiliar, probably Polish if Gilbert had to guess. "Very well. _'Lili Marlene,' _boys and girls. Hit it."

Gilbert had heard the tune of course. Since being released earlier in the year, it had been played practically nonstop on the more popular airwaves. He turned from the stage to smile again at Elizaveta, who gazed at him with a sad, resigned expression. "It's a lovely song to say farewell to, isn't it?"

Gilbert shrugged in response. "I'm sure it is nicer to say hello to."

_Underneath the lantern, by the barrack gate,  
>Darling I remember, the way you used to wait.<br>_'_Twas there that you whispered tenderly,  
>That you loved me, you'd always be,<br>My lily of the lamplight,  
>My own Lili Marlene.<em>

The farewell was quick. Elizaveta always preferred it that way. No sentimental nonsense; no tears and endless hugs. Gilbert watched from a distance as she finally joined her husband, watched as she hugged him tenderly, as his face lit up. He watched as they talked, as they laughed, as Roderich let his uncomfortable guard down and leant easily against the bar. Gilbert watched for far too long before he realised that it wasn't Elizaveta he was staring at. It was him. Roderich Edelstein, the brilliant Jewish Austrian Gilbert had never met, the brilliant composer he knew nothing about. Well, nothing except for one thing. That somehow, when he smiled like that - with those big, dark eyes behind his glasses and those parted lips and that soft, beautiful face – somehow, he was one of the most beautiful things Gilbert had seen in all his life.

Feeling an irritating confusion, but also a sort of hasty recklessness, Gilbert plucked a single lily from one of the vases on the bar before him. If nothing else, this would be a last little joke for Elizaveta to remember him by. He made his way over to Elizaveta and her lovely husband, Elizaveta noticing him and drawing her eyebrows together in apprehension as he approached. But Gilbert just leant on the bar beside Roderich, blocking the soft light of the lamp, and handed the lily to him with a bright smile. Roderich looked up with a beautifully innocent air of bewilderment. This close, Gilbert was actually a little thrown - Roderich was stunningly beautiful. His light, violet eyes, his perfectly defined yet gentle features - even a charming little beauty mark Gilbert had not noticed earlier. Gilbert's heart beat faster in his chest, an unfamiliar sensation. He pressed the lily insistently into Roderich's soft, cool, unresisting hand. "You'll always be my lily of the lamplight. My own dear Roderich."

Roderich appeared utterly stunned. Gilbert did not give him or Elizaveta a chance to respond. He simply turned and headed for the exit, a feeling like air filling his chest and head. He laughed to himself, the last lines of the song drifting behind him as he left the cheerful, crowded cabaret for the cold and real street outside.

_You wait where that lantern softly gleamed,  
>Your sweet face seems to haunt my dreams.<br>My lily of the lamplight,  
>My own Lili Marlene.<em>

* * *

><p><em>To be continued…<em>

* * *

><p><em>'Lili Marlene' English lyrics by Tommie Connor.<em>

_The German lyrics are quite different to the English lyrics, I know. I am taking artistic liberties :-)_

'_Lili Marlene' sung by Lale Andersen, 1939 German version – (YouTube) /watch?v=bUsePoATbrU_

'_Lili Marlene' sung by Vera Lynn, English version – (YouTube)_ _/watch?v=YGvrCvEmaMI_


	2. Chapter 2

Gilbert sat on the hard, bare bed, rubbing his swollen jaw and staring impatiently at the locked door. The night had passed fairly quickly, thanks to a quiet room and a near concussion. Strangely enough, locked in this provisional cell with a battered face, an aching back, and a death sentence, Gilbert had slept better than he had in months. But now the cold Russian sun filtered lazily through the wood-barred window, reality started to set in, and Gilbert sat waiting to be thrown into a prison truck and sent to his final posting. He almost laughed. Four years. Four years he'd survived the war in Europe. Four goddamn years of killing Brits, killing Russians; of avoiding bullets and dodging bayonets; of pissing off every superior officer who came his way. Four bloody, tiring, sickening years Gilbert had survived; and one damned hour after meeting that prissy Austrian, he was sentenced to a prison unit.

Gilbert normally wouldn't have given a shit about some soldiers staring and gossiping about a new recruit. Hell, if he were bored he probably would have joined them. Whether fortunately or unfortunately however, it was hard to forget a face like that, and Gilbert immediately recognised the beautiful Austrian sitting alone and wary in the mess hall. He had no idea what a rich, upper class musician could have done to end up in a German base on the front lines, but Gilbert felt immediately furious about it. After everything Elizaveta had done to protect this fool, after the man had been lucky enough to hide his Jewish heritage and avoid a work camp, he'd gone and gotten himself sent to the Russian Front. Gilbert was pretty damn sure Eliza had not given this man her name and fled to Switzerland so he could die at the hands of the Russians.

Gilbert sighed wearily, tapped his foot on the ground, and peered around the window bars to see how high the sun was in the sky. It was no use. Dark grey clouds obscured most of the light overhead. Impatience and boredom ate at his mind where perhaps fear and anxiety belonged. But he'd been in worse situations than this, and fear had long ago given way to indifferent acceptance. He could only imagine how Roderich was handling it in the cell next door, however. He almost felt glad at the thought. All right, sure, the Austrian hadn't asked for those filthy, gutless bastards to attack him, but he had been stupid enough to wander off alone on the base. Gilbert could see that protecting this little prince, even for Eliza's sake, was going to test every ounce of patience that he just didn't have.

Gilbert's sigh turned to a growl. "Hurry up, you lazy bastards," he muttered. When the hell would the guards come to handcuff them and… Gilbert blinked in sudden realisation. Handcuffs… He quickly dug around in his front pocket, past a small bag of supplemental candy rations and the last packet of coffee he'd been saving, until his fingers closed around the tiny metal pin he always carried. He tucked the pin into his sleeve, smiled smugly to himself, and silently thanked Francis for the one useful thing the depraved Frenchman had ever taught him.

.

"Right, time to go, Héderváry." Roderich's head snapped up at the words, and the cold dread he had spent the night suppressing fell like a rock in his stomach. He swallowed dryly, his head swimming. He started to nod, but instead held his head high as he got to his feet, praying his legs would not give way beneath him. The military guard marched across the small cell, grabbed Roderich's wrists roughly, and snapped the cold metal handcuffs around them. Roderich focused on breathing deeply and keeping the fear from his eyes. _I am better than them. They will not see me afraid. I am better than them._ Roderich repeated the words in his head like a mantra as the guard grasped his arm and led him from the cell.

Roderich did not know where he was going. He had no idea what was happening, no idea what to expect. He had barely slept; the entire restless night spent replaying the colonel's words in his head… _They'll be heading on to the prison unit stationed at the next village… The charge is perpetration of illicit activity… Congratulations, Beilschmidt. You're now a walking dead man. _And still, none of it made sense. Roderich did not even know what a prison unit was. He had thought he was in the most awful place on earth; but apparently, there was somewhere worse.

The guard pulled him through the hallway and into the square outside, where a large military transport vehicle sat idling in the nearly empty street. Everything was suddenly both too real and strangely dreamlike. Roderich blinked slowly, the street spun around him, and for a brief moment, he sincerely feared he would be physically ill.

"Morning, Héderváry. Sleep well?" Roderich turned his head sharply, both stunned and annoyed by the sweeping feeling of relief that rushed over him. Gilbert stood confidently beside him, smiling brightly despite the handcuffs on his wrists and the guard's rough hand on his arm. Roderich did not have time to respond before they were both abruptly dragged to the back of the truck and practically thrown through the open doors.

The dozen or so soldiers in the truck stared silently as Roderich stumbled into the vehicle behind Gilbert. They all looked to be regular army, of various ranks, and all had their hands handcuffed before them. Another wave of angry fear settled in Roderich's stomach. Why did everyone out here keep _staring?_ He straightened his shoulders, forced himself to keep his face impassive and his head held high. _I am better than them. They will not see me afraid._

The truck door slammed shut with a condemning thud, leaving just enough light from the high windows to see dimly. Roderich's breath caught in his throat, but he calmly followed Gilbert into the truck. He wanted nothing to do with any of these uncivilised people. But the brazen German _had_ come to his aid the night before, and for some unfathomable reason, he seemed to be somewhat concerned for Roderich's safety. Roderich told himself he did not need the man's help, but was all too aware it was a lie. It made him intensely angry that he had no choice but to trust this loud, brutish soldier he did not know.

Gilbert pushed a few men aside on the narrow wooden bench that ran the length of the truck. Roderich wondered if he even noticed the men's angry mutters. From what Roderich had gathered so far of this brash German, Gilbert did not seem to care much about aggravating people. But doing it in this situation was just asking for trouble.

The truck took off almost the second Roderich took a careful seat at Gilbert's side. Another row of soldiers sat opposite them, and Roderich raised his eyes to stare past them. Surely if he just stayed silent, no one would even notice…

"Morning, boys! Pleasant day for it, am I right?"

Roderich's stomach fell and his eyes snapped sideways. The soldiers glared silently, but Gilbert just continued merrily, a broad grin on his face. "Summertime in Russia. Can't beat it for a drive through the countryside. Cheer up, lads, you look like you're going to a funeral."

"Gilbert." Roderich spoke as quietly as he could manage, disturbed and alarmed. These did not look like the type of men to make idle conversation with. "What do you think you're…"

"Think you're funny, do ya, Private?" snarled a man sitting opposite, an angry looking sergeant with a bloodstained collar and a large scar across his face. Roderich's eyes widened and his skin turned cold. Gilbert, however, seemed to bite back a giggle.

"I'm hilarious, I know, there's really no need to point it out."

The sergeant leant forward, his hard, focused eyes boring into Gilbert's in a blatant attempt at intimidation. In the dim light Roderich could just make out the name on the man's jacket. '_Hesse_.' "You know, I really don't think I'm in the mood for this shit."

Roderich felt his entire body tense. This 'Hesse' was bigger, taller, and a hell of a lot angrier than Gilbert. Just what did this stupid German think he was doing? Roderich glanced at him warningly, but Gilbert simply smiled benignly at the sergeant. It took a few moments for Roderich to realise that he was also twisting his cuffed hands slowly and almost imperceptibly against his stomach.

"Just having a friendly conversation about the weather, friend." Roderich felt frozen in place. It was almost like Gilbert was trying to provoke the man. But for God's sake, why?

Hesse spat loudly on the floor by Gilbert's foot. Roderich recoiled in disgust. "That's what I think of your 'friendly conversation.' _Friend._"

The soldiers watched the exchange with interest, those on the end of the benches leaning forward for a better view. Roderich was reminded unpleasantly of a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. Gilbert nodded pointedly at the spit on the floor, his smile unrelenting. "That's a filthy habit, Sergeant Hesse. You almost got my boot."

"Maybe that's what I was aiming for," growled Hesse threateningly.

"Really, it was?" Gilbert's hands continued to twist and Roderich formed the smallest suspicion in the back of his mind. But no… surely Gilbert wasn't _that_ stupid… "If so, you've got terrible aim. I bet you're popular with the Russians." Hesse snarled, snorted, then spat again. Roderich could not hold back a small noise of revulsion when a large globule of saliva landed directly on Gilbert's left boot. Gilbert glanced at it indifferently, his hands went still, and he stared directly into the sergeant's steely eyes. "Come on then, on your knees and finish the job. You look like the type used to licking a man's boots."

Hesse squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and Roderich's heart seemed to stop in his chest. Gilbert had gone too far. Sure enough, Hesse rose to his feet, handcuffed hands extended, and hurled himself towards Gilbert. Roderich shrunk back instinctively. But instead of being crushed by the man's hurtling weight, Gilbert reacted. He tossed his handcuffs to the ground before reaching up, grabbing Hesse's bound wrists, and twisting them until the sergeant stumbled. Gilbert didn't pause. He used his foot to drive the man's ankles out from under him, pushed him face-down to the floor, and dropped to his knee onto Hesse's back. It was done in a matter of seconds. Gilbert spoke immediately in a pleasant, friendly tone. "Well, goodness me, now that was just _rude!_ Here I am, having a friendly conversation about the weather, and you go and…"

"Who the f…" Gilbert cut Hesse off with a swift thump of his head to the ground. Roderich's head felt unclear as his ears rung with shock. Had Gilbert planned this the entire time? For what possible reason? Did all soldiers act like this, or was Gilbert simply insane? Gilbert just laughed and rolled his eyes at the quietly observant soldiers.

"Do you see what I mean? Rude!" Gilbert turned his attention back to the struggling sergeant. "_As_ I was saying – and you might want to stop twisting like that because you'll hurt yourself – when someone starts a friendly conversation you do NOT go and spit on their boot! Did your mother never teach you anything?"

"I'll teach you something, you goddamn son of a…"

"Uh-uh." Gilbert smacked Hesse's head to the ground again, a little more forcefully this time. "Don't interrupt! Now I'm going to give you one chance to let this go and be nice, because I'm reasonable like that. Before you make your decision, however, I suggest you think very hard, and very carefully." Gilbert dug his knee deeper into the man's back and dropped the friendly tone. "Do you really want me as an enemy?"

The silence in the truck was absolute. The soldiers' surprise seemed to mirror Roderich's own. He could even tell what they were thinking: how had Gilbert removed his handcuffs so quickly? How had he so easily sent this man to the floor? Roderich's heart stammered again when Gilbert's eyes unexpectedly met his own. In the dim light, just like in his anger the night before, they appeared to glow red. Roderich felt his eyes widen with astonishment and his lip curl with disgust. It was just as he thought: this man was nothing but a violent, uncivilised brute. Roderich's heart sunk at the realisation. If he couldn't trust Gilbert now, what did he have left?

Gilbert's crimson eyes turned back to the man trapped beneath him. Hesse obviously realised that he did not have much of a chance in handcuffs, and grunted in reluctant surrender. "Let's just forget it."

Gilbert released Hesse instantly. "I think that's a wonderful idea!" He stood quickly and offered the sergeant his hand. Hesse just glared at it before pulling himself back onto the wooden bench.

"Suit yourself." Gilbert shrugged cheerfully, picked up his discarded handcuffs, and sat back down beside Roderich. Roderich carefully edged away. "Now where was I… oh yes! Summertime in Russia. Now, I thought winter in Berlin was cold, but for the middle of August this weather is just fucked. Shit, friend, aren't you freezing?"

Gilbert directed to question to the corporal beside him, but the man didn't answer. Instead he asked warily, "So how did you end up here?"

Gilbert's smile fell, he narrowed his eyes, and the corporal leant away. Gilbert pointed his thumb at Roderich then spoke in a slow, stern voice. "Someone messed with him."

The truck fell silent again. Gilbert just smirked smugly to himself. Not for the first time, Roderich wondered just what Gilbert could possibly be thinking. He had undone his handcuffs, provoked the biggest man in the truck, effortlessly crushed him to the floor, and then… Roderich paused, blinked, and tilted his head as he remembered.

Every year, Roderich competed in the prestigious Austrian Music Competition. He would turn up to the hall each day during the week beforehand, take out his violin, and practice onstage. Word quickly spread of his incredible skill. Other contestants would come to listen, then talk amongst themselves. And every single year, at least a quarter of contestants pulled out before competition even began. Roderich studied Gilbert through narrowed eyes. Of course Gilbert had planned this. He wanted these soldiers to see what he was capable of. He wanted them to know it was a bad idea to mess with him. Yes, there were only a dozen men in this truck. But a dozen men could spread a story very quickly.

Gilbert met Roderich's calculating eyes and gave him a tiny wink. Roderich slowly looked away, his heart still racing and his skin still cold. Maybe he had underestimated this German soldier.

.

Gilbert clicked his handcuffs into place just in time to have them removed by a military guard as he followed Roderich off the truck. The sound and smell of revving engines and shouting men was both suffocating and familiar. He blinked in the clouded sunlight and took in the view around him. Another small village, almost identical to the last; almost identical to all the tiny villages he had passed through over the years. A narrow road, piles of sandbags and weaponry, battered looking wooden buildings. One place blended into another after a while. A small assemblage of trucks and vehicles crowded along the street and military guards shouted at the men as they disembarked. The prisoners wore a diversity of different uniforms. Most were regular Wehrmacht - army, navy and Luftwaffe - but there were also some foreign units, even a few filthy SS. Gilbert kept close to Roderich and followed the row of soldiers down the village road.

Gilbert breathed the cold, oil-scented air. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind at all - he could do this. This was nothing. He'd been shafted to a hundred different regiments, been sent to a hundred different towns. He'd been in worse situations than this. But glancing sideways at the pale, silent, aristocratic man beside him, Gilbert felt a strange, nagging anxiety he was utterly unfamiliar with. This was completely different to the hopeless situations he had easily survived. This was so much worse. "Stay beside me, okay?"

Roderich looked utterly out of his depth, staring around wide-eyed behind his glasses, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had cut into the skin. He looked sick, and he looked scared, and he looked like he was trying really damn hard to hide it. "I don't know what to do."

Gilbert groaned softly. _Oh, for God's sake…_ "Just do what you're told, and call everyone 'sir.' Some get real pissed when you don't do that. All right?" Roderich did not answer. Damn it, the guy looked like he was about to fall over. Gilbert closed his eyes briefly. "Hey, when was the last time you ate something?"

Roderich's forehead furrowed slightly. "I don't remember."

Gilbert gritted his teeth and choked back a growling, frustrated sigh. Keeping this silly little prince alive was not going to be easy. He reached into his front pocket to check what rations he had stashed away. "Do you even _want_ to survive? What did I tell you last night about eating?"

Indignant anger quickly replaced the fear in Roderich's eyes. He almost seemed to come back to himself. "Don't speak to me like that…"

"And you can stop with the bratty aristocrat act. There are men gonna speak to you a hell of a lot harsher than I do, but you're gonna shut up, and you're gonna listen - if you want to see another day, that is. Now here." Gilbert pulled his last candy ration from his pocket and pressed it into Roderich's hand. "Fruit candy. It's packed with sugar so you won't keel over for a few hours at least."

Roderich looked down at the candy for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he raised his chin and glared. "I don't need your charity. You're nothing but a thug."

Gilbert snorted. "Damn straight. A thug who quite literally saved your arse last night, and got sent to this hellhole for the privilege." Roderich winced in distaste. "And a thug who's gonna see to it that you make it through this mess alive."

Roderich's eyes clouded with doubtful confusion. "Why?"

"Why?" Gilbert paused. _Because the only woman I ever loved risked everything for you, and I'll be damned if her sacrifice will be for nothing._ Gilbert smirked. "Because I'm such a nice guy, that's why."

Roderich's leant forward as they walked, his expression proud and suspicious. "I don't believe you."

Gilbert just grinned back at him. "You don't have a choice, little prince."

Roderich's indignant response was promptly disrupted as they reached the tiny town centre. Military guards lined the broken and bullet-riddled buildings that surrounded the little cobblestoned square. Gilbert stayed determinedly by Roderich's side as the armed guards shouted and jostled the soldiers into rows. Roderich looked appalled and affronted at the slightest touch, until Gilbert found himself growling and glaring at anyone who came too close. He was practically ashamed of himself - reduced to being a damn guard dog for a precious little prince.

Thankfully it did not take long before the surging rabble assembled into a few haphazard lines. Surprised at the speed of assembly, Gilbert realised that there were only about fifty men standing at various states of attention. Somehow, in the commotion, it had felt like more. Gilbert and Roderich ended up in the front row between two blond soldiers, one short and one tall, both in unfamiliar uniforms. The tall blond wore a strange side-buttoning blazer with no medals and held a rifle by his side. Annoyance rose swiftly in Gilbert's chest. He'd been stripped of his rifle, his pack, and his treasured pistol the night before. Why the hell was this enormous bastard allowed his rifle? He was just about to broach the subject when a roaring shout rang out. "ATTENTION!"

Gilbert's eyes snapped front and he felt Roderich tense beside him. From the battered little building before them, between a line of guards, marched a short, scowling officer with a captain's insignia on his green jacket. His hair was shaggy and blond, his movements swift and precise, his expression cold and severe. There were two rifles strapped conspicuously to his back and a pistol at his hip. Gilbert almost laughed. He knew this type - a short little man compensating for something with too much firepower. Oh hell, this would be fun.

The captain snatched a folder from a guard and marched to the front of the line. As he passed, he happened to glance sideways at Roderich. He stopped, blinked, and his blank demeanour broke for just a second. Almost before Gilbert registered it however, the captain's face turned unemotional and he motioned over a guard. After a few muttered words, the captain's eyebrows shot up and he looked straight from Roderich to Gilbert. Roderich shifted on his feet. Gilbert stared the captain evenly, warily, in the eye.

Gilbert knew what was coming. He'd been lined up and yelled at countless hundreds of times, by sergeants, lieutenants, a dozen different commanding officers. Gilbert knew how this worked by now. Stand straight, keep a blank face, answer when you're spoken to. Gilbert wasn't too good at all that, though. If there was one thing he had in common with Roderich, it was that he didn't like being told what to do. Gilbert just didn't know how to accept authority. He did know that you shouldn't laugh, you shouldn't talk back, you shouldn't roll your eyes, and you really shouldn't ash your cigarette on an officer's boots - as three months on latrine duty had taught him all too well.

The captain marched before them, piercing eyes travelling along the disorganised lines of men, then stood still and silent. When he spoke, it was not with the deafening pitch Gilbert was used to, but just a deep and steady tone of command. "As of this moment, you are stripped of your rank. I don't give a damn if you were a corporal, a sergeant, or a goddamned colonel. Congratulations - each and every one of you is now a private. You're in my unit now. My name is Captain Zwingli, and you answer to me."

Gilbert chanced another glance around. A captain in charge of fifty prisoners? What had this guy done to get such a shitty assignment? The captain continued, his voice heavily accented. It was clear he was not a German.

"I don't know what you all did to end up here. Frankly, I don't much care." Captain Zwingli surveyed the row of condemned soldiers coldly, his hands clasping the folder behind his back, his eyes hard and narrow. Standing shorter than every man in line before him, he still managed to exude an aura of intimidation and utter authority. "This is the end of the line. You have been sent here to die. You can try to put it off as long as you like, but in the end, it won't matter. None of you will see the end of the war."

The foreign captain let silence fall, let the words sink in. His sweeping gaze fell upon the tall blond beside Gilbert, and he marched to stand before him. The soldier just stared down calmly. "Oxenstierna, wasn't it?" barked Zwingli. He looked down briefly at the folder in his hand. "Known as the 'Lion of the North.' Volunteer to the Finnish front, originally of the_ Svenska Frivilligkåren_." The Swede stayed silent, only inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. Zwingli looked the man up and down. "What's this on your rifle, soldier?"

"'s'a picture," the Swede mumbled, his voice deep and detached.

"Well, I can see that clearly enough. Who is it of?"

Oxenstierna's expression was almost terrifying in its complete lack of emotion. "M'wife."

Zwingli raised an eyebrow. "Your… wife?" The Swede nodded and Zwingli stared again at the photograph taped to the rifle by the man's side. "Oxenstierna, either your wife is a rather unique looking girl who has cut her hair short, grown an Adam's apple and, judging by the uniform, joined the Finnish army, or marriage customs in northern Europe are rather different from what I had been led to believe." The captain waited silently, but Oxenstierna did not reply. Zwingli shot a pointed glare directly at Gilbert. "Wonderful. Looks like I've been given the homosexual unit."

Roderich stiffened and Gilbert's indignant response was prematurely cut off. "Oh, thank God," piped up the little blond soldier beside Roderich. "Do you know, I was totally starting to worry I'd been sent to the wrong place."

Zwingli snapped his head sharply at the words, turned on his heel, and marched the few steps to stand before the little blond. From the corner of his eye Gilbert saw the soldier take a step backwards.

"Stand steady, Private!" barked Zwingli.

"Okay, yeah, right. I mean, yes. Sir. Um."

Zwingli looked the soldier up and down then glanced down at his folder. "Feliks Łukasiewicz." His head shot up, his eyes narrow and slightly puzzled. "That sounds suspiciously Polish."

"I _am_ Polish, sir."

Gilbert turned his head in surprise. He could hear a few low murmurs from behind. Zwingli just nodded once. "Now this I am interested in. How the hell did _you_ end up here?"

Łukasiewicz let out a short giggle. "Well, come on, I didn't exactly volunteer now, did I?"

"You've been fighting for the Germans?"

"No, man, I tell you, it was crazy, yeah? One minute I'm in Berlin - I'm a singer in a cabaret, you know - living with my boy - my part - my, uh, my friend, Liet… well, his name is Toris, but I call him Liet, because he's Lithuanian, right?" The murmurs grew louder. Łukasiewicz didn't seem to notice the looks and just kept chattering obliviously at the bemused looking captain. "I mean, everything was fine until, like, a war happened, or something. And then, Liet and I… well…" The Pole broke off for just a second before continuing. "Well, he went home to Lithuania. Not, you know, like I care or anything, because I totally don't. So I said to myself - 'Feliks,' I said, 'If there's a war, you should go and, you know, fight, or something.'"

Gilbert could barely restrain himself from bursting into laughter. A brief sideways glance showed that, surprisingly, Roderich looked like he felt the exact same way. Tiny smiles broke on both their lips before they looked away. Gilbert expected the captain to stop Łukasiewicz, but Zwingli made no move to interrupt the prattling Pole.

"So I went into town and I asked, you know, where the Polish unit was." Gilbert felt the laughter die in his chest as an unpleasant suspicion formed in his mind. He knew where this was going. The little blond continued. "But the unit they put me in, it wasn't Polish. Like, they all spoke Polish and that, but they weren't… well…" Łukasiewicz broke off again. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "They weren't very nice. I mean, I didn't realise we would be fighting for the Germans. The things they said, and the things they did to our own..." Łukasiewicz shook his head firmly. "No. Those men weren't truly Polish. So, I asked to leave."

A rather confused silence fell. Roderich sighed almost inaudibly; Gilbert snorted softly. Poor, stupid Polish bastard. Zwingli gave the Pole a look that clearly stated he had never met anyone so simple in his entire life. "You joined the Polish division of the Waffen-SS, and you asked to leave?"

Łukasiewicz lowered his head. "I asked nicely."

"And now here you are. Fighting for the Germans after all."

Łukasiewicz looked at the ground and scuffed his boot in the dirt. "The way I choose to look at it, sir, is that I'm fighting against the Russians."

Zwingli widened his eyes, exhaled an exhausted sounding breath, and turned away, shaking his head. His focused stare turned directly to Roderich. Gilbert straightened, immediately on guard. This time, Zwingli did not look at his folder before he spoke. "Roderich… _Héderváry._" Gilbert clenched his fist. He did not like the way Zwingli said Roderich's surname… almost suspiciously.

Roderich did not seem to notice, however, as he replied. "Yes." Gilbert cleared his throat. Roderich paused. "Sir."

Zwingli raised his chin appraisingly and tapped his fingers on the folder. "You don't look like much of a soldier."

Roderich shrugged almost undetectably. "I am not a soldier."

"What are you doing in my unit, then?"

"I don't really know."

Zwingli's eyes were too bright, too discerning. "A composer from Austria, with a Hungarian name. Did your music displease the wrong person?"

Roderich spoke quietly, but firmly. His dignified air never once wavered. "Rather, it pleased them too much. There are certain things I will not be associated with. Nor let my music be associated with."

Zwingli's eyebrows shot up. "So we have a political dissident, do we?"

"No." Roderich breathed out sharply, sadly. "I'm just a musician."

"And you are of no use to this unit." Zwingli moved along the line. "You, however."

"Sir." Gilbert used his superior height to look down at the captain. He had long learnt how to appear intimidating without being outwardly insubordinate. Insubordination generally followed fairly quickly, however... he couldn't seem to help it.

Zwingli read from the folder. "Gilbert Beilschmidt." He looked up, interest and amusement in his intense, green eyes. Gilbert held his gaze easily. "No relation to the pilot, Ludwig Beilschmidt?"

Gilbert felt the entire unit's gaze on him and rolled his eyes. _Oh, here we go.._. If he was asked that one more time… "Yes. He's my little brother. I'm the bad one." He glanced around pointedly. "Obviously."

"So, Private." Zwingli stopped and tapped his chin. "Hmm. _Private_. Your younger brother is a Lieutenant, isn't he?"

Gilbert gritted his teeth. Scathing little bastard. "Like I said. I'm the bad one."

Zwingli nodded, his expression carefully dispassionate. "Interesting. Tell me. How does it feel to be standing in a prison unit on the Russian Front while your little brother brings glory to the Reich from the West?"

Gilbert narrowed his eyes. He was all too aware of Roderich listening to this exchange, and wondered why the hell that bothered him. "What is this, you interviewing me for the newspaper?"

"Just having a 'friendly conversation.'" Zwingli leant forward and flashed Gilbert a sly, tiny smile. "_Friend._"

Gilbert snorted, his heated anger replaced by a sense of accomplishment. Oh, how quickly twelve men could spread a story. "Ah. I see, sir."

"Well." Zwingli started to walk away. "At least we have one German in this pathetic little company."

Gilbert grinned and shouted after him. "Actually, I always considered myself Prussian, sir."

Zwingli laughed humourlessly. "There ain't no difference anymore, soldier. MEN!" Zwingli stood again before the assembled unit, his chest puffed out and his hands behind his back. "I suggest you get some rest. We will be pushing out tomorrow behind the regulars. You will be armed in the morning. I'll be giving you your orders soon, and I can assure you, you aren't going to like them. I wouldn't worry about it too much, however. Half of you will be dead before the week is over. Fall out!"

* * *

><p><em>To be continued…<em>


	3. Chapter 3

Gilbert sat leaning against the front wall of a tiny building in the little town square, watching with half-hearted interest as a nearby fight between a sailor and a former SS officer escalated. Gilbert was rooting silently for the sailor. Roderich sat in the doorway beside him, gripping the wooden step tightly, his knuckles white. They had not yet been told their sleeping arrangements, their eating arrangements, any of it. There was nothing to do but sit and wait. No wonder men were starting to fight - nothing like a good brawl to break up the boredom. Any other time and Gilbert would have happily joined in. These two men were hopeless, their swings wild and sloppy and unfocused. Gilbert could smash them easily. He wondered what the prince would say of it, however, and forced himself to stay put.

The heat and smell of the nearby small fire wafted over Gilbert's senses. Oxenstierna had probably started it for the warmth, or perhaps simply because it was something to do. True, it was ridiculously freezing for this alleged summer, but surely the Swede should be used to the cold. He was Swedish, after all. The Swedish 'Lion of the North.' Gilbert wondered what the hell the title was supposed to mean. Why did _Oxenstierna_ have a title? Surely Gilbert deserved a title. The 'Eagle of the East' or something. Gilbert grumbled softly to himself. _He_ wanted a title, damn it. The blasted 'Lion of the North' sat on the ground by the fire, polishing his rifle, ignoring Gilbert's suspicious glances. The Polish soldier, Łukasiewicz, had come closer for the heat, and filed his nails silently as he sat on a small crate close to the fire. In all of three years, he was the first soldier Gilbert had ever seen filing his nails.

Gilbert picked up a twig from the dirty ground and threw it in the fire. Only the slightest spark of flame greeted his efforts. "What's the deal with the captain, do you think?" he asked no one in particular. The silence was starting to annoy him. Gilbert did not particularly like silence. Silence was suspicious. "He's no German career soldier."

"I heard some of the men talking about it." The Pole spoke softly, with a strong accent, and did not look up from his nails as he spoke. He wore the grey uniform of the SS, but he looked like no SS Gilbert had ever seen. He flicked back his shoulder-length blonde hair and shrugged. "Apparently he's, you know, like a Swiss mercenary. Or something."

"Crazy bastard," muttered Gilbert. It made sense, however. Who the hell else would run a unit like this?

"Swiss, did you say?" asked Roderich, his voice pensive. Gilbert almost startled at the words: it was the first Roderich had spoken since the line up. Basically the pretty Austrian had stayed close to Gilbert, darted his big violet eyes around nervously, and glared at everything and everyone like they were something nasty on the bottom of his shoe.

"Yeah," answered Feliks vaguely. He blew on his nails.

"Zwingli…" Roderich furrowed his brow, like he was trying to remember something. Gilbert peered at him curiously. He hoped the guy wasn't going insane already. He hadn't even seen combat yet.

"Problem?"

Roderich glanced up at Gilbert quickly, as though he'd forgotten he was there. He pushed his hair behind his ear and adjusted his glasses. "No, it's… it's nothing."

Gilbert shrugged and turned his attention back to the nearby fight. The sailor and the SS officer's shoddy punches were actually starting to connect now. "Money's on the sailor," Gilbert muttered softly. To his surprise, Oxenstierna responded.

"Pack'f cigarettes on th'SS."

Gilbert nodded, somewhat impressed. Maybe this Nordic lion wasn't quite as boring as he seemed. "You are on, my leonine friend."

Oxenstierna did not look up. "Done."

"Done." Gilbert smiled, rather pleased with himself. He needed some cigarettes. Roderich barely seemed to have noticed the exchange, instead eyeing the fighting soldiers warily. Gilbert, however, was becoming a little more worried about why this huge, blank-faced Swedish bastard he'd just placed a bet with kept polishing his rifle right beside them. "Oxenstierna," he barked loudly. "Why the hell do you still have your rifle?"

"No one took't off me."

"Huh." Gilbert wasn't actually surprised no one had taken the rifle off the man. Oxenstierna was one of the biggest men Gilbert had ever seen, next to his freak of a brother. Still, Gilbert didn't have a rifle, this bastard did, and that pissed Gilbert off. "Well, it's not regulation issue. They'll probably take it off you tomorrow."

"They won't."

"They won't?"

The Swede looked up slowly, his stern eyes glinting in the firelight. "No one's takin't off me."

Gilbert was willing to bet no one would try, if the Swede looked at them like that. He tried to inspect the gun from the short distance. It looked to Gilbert like a standard sniper rifle, something like the Mosins used by the Russians. Certainly nothing special. Gilbert could just make out the photograph attached to its side, of a young, smiling blond man in a Finnish army jacket. He nodded towards it. "Your wife, huh." Oxenstierna nodded. "Right, right." Gilbert drummed his fingers together and wondered just what it would take to break this Swede's composure. The Swede was bigger than him; the Swede was armed and Gilbert was not. Gilbert carefully evaluated the risk, then shrugged to himself. Screw it, he was bored. "Well done, sir. Was it a big wedding?" Gilbert felt Roderich's warning eyes on him immediately.

Oxenstierna did not react. Roderich spoke softly. "Gilbert, what…"

Gilbert ignored him. This was one way to get a little excitement going. He leant forward, smirked, and lowered his voice. "Did the bride wear white?"

Roderich drew in a sharp breath. "Gilbert, I really don't think…"

"I'm sure the parents were very proud." Roderich started to hiss another warning, so Gilbert turned, grinned, and nodded towards him cheerfully. "This here is my wife, actually, didn't you know?"

Roderich's perfectly shaped face turned white. He looked like he was about to choke. "I _beg _your pardon?"

Gilbert snickered. Oh, this could be fun. "The honeymoon was lovely, wasn't it darling? Show the nice man your wedding ring." Gilbert was actually pretty damn surprised Roderich had a wedding ring, considering he didn't even have a real marriage.

Roderich breathed out angrily and covered the thin gold band with a delicate hand. "This ring is from my actual wedding. With my wife. My real wife."

_That _got the Swede to react. His hand froze on the rifle and his shoulders straightened. His voice was no less threatening for its quietness. "Ye sayin' m'wife's not real?"

Gilbert turned an affronted look on Roderich. "Yeah, Roddy, you sayin' his wife's not real?"

"No, I just… what… what did you call me?" Roderich obviously did not know how to talk like this. Gilbert mentally filed the offending name away for future use. Unfortunately, the nail-filing Pole piped up before the situation could get really interesting.

"I'm sort of married too, you know. Except I think I'm the wife."

Gilbert snorted softly. That much was painfully obvious. "Well, well. Where have all the bachelors gone? But hubby's gone home to Lithuania, didn't you say?"

Łukasiewicz looked down, suddenly distraught. He looked like a kicked puppy. "Yes. And he, like, joined the Russian army." He shrugged. "Or something," he finished quietly.

"No shit? You do realise that by now he's probably…" Gilbert broke off as Roderich thumped him heavily on the shoulder. A sharp pain burst down his arm.

"Ow! Now Roddy, darling, that was uncalled for." Gilbert glared and rubbed his shoulder brusquely. Damn, the delicate musician hit harder than expected. The corner of Roderich's lip lifted, disgusted.

"Probably what?" Łukasiewicz bit his lip and drew his eyebrows together. "Liet's probably what?"

Gilbert had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Łukasiewicz would surely have just as hard a time out here as pretty boy Roderich. Still, strangely, Gilbert couldn't quite bring himself to tell the little Pole that, as a Lithuanian in the Red Army, his beloved 'Liet' was probably long dead. "Probably somewhere nearby," he finished instead. "Hey, you might even run into him! Except then you'd be trying to kill each other, and…"

"Feliks, wasn't it?" Roderich interrupted loudly. "I'm sorry, but I don't believe I can pronounce your surname correctly."

Feliks giggled softly and waved a hand. "Everyone says that, you know. It's really not that hard. Silly Germans."

"Austrian, actually." Roderich smiled, and Gilbert's eyes narrowed as he watched the exchange. Why was the snooty prince being friendly to this silly little Pole of all people? Gilbert felt surprisingly insulted. "My name is Roderich Héderváry, but you can call me Roderich if you like."

"Roderich," muttered Gilbert under his breath. "Never said _I_ could call you _Roderich_..."

Feliks took one very deep breath, tilted his head to the side, and absently bit a perfectly filed thumbnail. He breathed out slowly as he regarded Roderich closely. A strange silence fell over the small group. Finally, Feliks' eyes widened and brightened. Then he nodded decisively. "I'm going to call you Fred."

Gilbert snickered a little and Roderich took a moment to respond. "Oh. Why?"

"Because you're a musician. Captain Karabin said you were a composer." Gilbert and Roderich glanced at each other briefly. Karabin? Feliks did not explain. "My favourite composer is Frédéric Chopin. Because he's Polish, did you know? Liet told me that." Feliks smiled gently. "Liet knows lots of things like that."

Roderich seemed to melt back into the doorway at the words. He closed his deep violet eyes, then let out a long, heavy breath as he opened them slowly. His saddened expression almost twisted in pain. "Chopin is my favourite, also." Suddenly he did not look proud, or stuck-up, or pompous. Instead he looked beautiful, and sad, and Gilbert felt strangely uncomfortable. Gilbert forced himself to look away and hummed thoughtfully.

"Chopin, Chopin. Is he the one who went deaf?" Gilbert looked back at Roderich's horrified gasp.

The Austrian's nostrils flared and his lip curled. He looked genuinely disgusted. "What sort of education did you have, barbarian?"

And just like that, the prince was pompous once again. Gilbert gave a snort of defiant, contemptuous laughter. "Barbarian?" Exactly something a prissy aristocrat would say. "I was educated in a cave," Gilbert spat sarcastically, "And taught to kill wild animals with a club."

"Gosh," interrupted Feliks, staring wide-eyed and open mouthed. "They teach you really strange things in Germany." Roderich's angry response died on his lips. His amused expression mirrored Gilbert's own. Feliks spoke airily and amiably. "All I learnt at school was times-tables and how to spell and where to hide from the nuns. But Beilschmidt, you said you were Prussian, didn't you?"

"That's exactly right, my Polish friend." Gilbert puffed out his chest. "I come from a long, proud military line that stretches all the way back to the great Knights of the Teutonic Order." Gilbert smiled smugly and ignored Roderich's quiet scoff. Feliks, however, looked intensely impressed.

"Wow! A Teutonic Knight! I'm going to call you Sir Gil."

"Hmm." Gilbert raised his head thoughtfully. He liked the sound of that. As far as a title went, it was pretty damn impressive. "Yeah… fuck yeah! Sir Gil! What do you think, Roddy, suits me, doesn't it?"

Roderich peered at Gilbert dubiously. His violet eyes danced with derision. "Sir? Please. You've no chance of obtaining the title through either knighthood or promotion."

Feliks giggled. Gilbert did not have time to shoot back a scathing response before two men fell abruptly onto the ground before them, grunting and swearing, limbs flying in wild kicks and punches that sent clouds of dust into the air. Gilbert had completely forgotten about the brawling sailor and the officer. He swore loudly as Roderich shrunk back against the wooden door. Feliks shrieked and fell backwards off his crate. The forgotten brawlers rolled dangerously close to the fire, heedless of the flames or the four surprised men watching.

Gilbert shouted to be heard. "Christ, boys, as much as I respect a man's right to fight, there are ladies present! No offence, Feliks."

Roderich's anger seemed to override his alarm over the brawling men. He turned to Gilbert, the derision in his violet eyes turned to fury. "Gilbert, I hope you realise that you are the only one who thinks you are at all amusing!"

"That's not true, the Swede here thinks I'm hilarious, don't you, Oxenstierna?"

"Oh, will you stop saying such ridiculous things!" shouted Roderich, his voice louder than Gilbert had yet heard it. Suddenly one of the men, the sailor, kicked too close to the fire and sent a wave of sparks in Feliks' direction. Feliks screamed again and covered his head. Strangely furious, Gilbert went to grab the man by the wrist, but was stopped in his tracks when the blasting crack of a gunshot echoed through the tiny square. Roderich gasped, Gilbert fell back instinctively against the wall, and the brawling men broke apart immediately.

Oxenstierna held his rifle pointed in the air, staring at the two men with that still, expressionless, terrifying glare. But when he spoke his voice was no more than a quiet mumble. "Y'should apologise fer that."

Feliks let out a relieved breath and looked at the Swede with wide, gleaming eyes. He smiled brightly. "I'm going to stick with you, Kociak."

Gilbert did not stop to ponder Feliks' odd words. He got the feeling he would have to get used to them. As the men scrambled to their feet, their eyes fixed on the Swede's rifle, Gilbert saw an opportunity. "Damn straight you should apologise," he said jovially, stretching out his legs and leaning leisurely back against the wall. Roderich stayed still and quiet beside him. Gilbert breathed evenly to slow his jumpy heart rate. "Interrupting our conversation, almost destroying our fire. Kicking sparks at my friend here." Gilbert nodded at Feliks. "I think you _owe_ us a damn apology."

The SS soldier snorted derisively. His blonde hair was far too long for the military - perhaps he had been AWOL long enough to let it grow. Gilbert squinted to make out the name on his jacket: from the small distance, he could just vaguely read the word _Saxon._ Saxon glared down at Gilbert in disgust. "I don't owe you shit."

Gilbert smirked faintly. He was hoping for an answer like that. "Is that right? Oxenstierna?" Gilbert did not turn his head as he said it, but he hoped the Swede would understand what he was asking. There was a loud, unmistakable click as Oxenstierna pulled his rifle bolt back. Gilbert almost laughed - the Swede understood. He was liking Oxenstierna more and more. Gilbert grinned at the uncertain soldiers. "I think a pack of cigarettes will suffice."

The sailor looked about to respond, but Saxon drew himself up confrontationally. "Who says I got any cigarettes?"

"Oxenstierna?" asked Gilbert again. This time the Swede fired the rifle. Roderich jumped and put his hand to his chest as the deafening sound tore again through the silent afternoon. Saxon snarled in anger, but the sailor's nerves seemed to get the better of him.

"Okay, okay, here." The sailor spoke placatingly as he reached into his front pocket, pulled out a distinctive red packet of Aviatik cigarettes, and tossed them to Gilbert.

"Wonderful!" said Gilbert, catching the cigarettes delightedly. The packet was almost full. Enough to spilt evenly with the Swede, seeing as neither of them had really won their earlier bet. He waved a hand dismissively. "You two can bugger off now."

The two men dusted themselves off and stalked away, throwing back dark looks as they went. Saxon stopped to glare at Oxenstierna and growl, "That rifle's not standard issue. And don't forget, we'll all be armed tomorrow."

"Yeah, just try and take it from him," laughed Gilbert. Actually, he would like to see that. Gilbert hated the SS. Filthy, mind-broken, morally bankrupt idiots living high on power. And this Saxon looked like the real deal, not just a misguided fool like poor Feliks. Gilbert sneered at him disdainfully. "And don't _you _forget, despite your officer's stripes, you're just a lowly private now."

"Well done, Gilbert," said Roderich quietly, once the men had crossed the square. He was rather pale, but looked more angry than anything. "So it is your mission in life to make enemies, is it?"

"Nah, but I'm pretty damn good at it." Gilbert pulled half the cigarettes from the packet. Aviatik was a good brand. Not quite as good as the American's Lucky Strikes, but certainly nothing to sneer at. "You right there, Feliks?"

"Yes," said Feliks breathlessly. The Pole sat again on his crate, staring at Gilbert with the same wide-eyed admiration he'd held for Oxenstierna earlier. "I'm gonna stick with you as well, Sir Gil!"

Gilbert placed the cigarettes carefully in an inner pocket of his jacket. "Not a bad idea, my friend. I have a talent for surviving. Do you smoke?"

"No, it makes Liet's eyes water."

"What the hell does that matter n – _ow!"_ Gilbert winced as Roderich once again thumped him in the arm. "Okay, okay. I won't even bother asking if _you_ smoke, Roddy. Oxenstierna." Gilbert nodded towards him. "I can see we'll get along just fine. And here." Gilbert tossed the half-full packet to the Swede, who caught it easily. "Neither of the bastards won."

Oxenstierna nodded, pushed the cigarettes into his front pocket, and turned his attention back to cleaning the end of the rifle over his knees. For the first time, Gilbert noticed that the Swede was wearing a battered iron band on his ring finger. He was surprisingly moved at the sight. It was not an emotion he was used to. Perhaps Oxenstierna's 'marriage' meant more to the Swede than Gilbert had bothered to consider. That cheap, tarnished little ring obviously meant more than the gleaming, undoubtedly expensive gold on Roderich's finger.

"Everyone's, like, looking at us now, you know."

The words broke Gilbert from his reverie. He glanced promptly around the square. Feliks was right. Small pockets of prisoners stared in their direction, speaking amongst themselves. A group of military guards eyed them suspiciously from a nearby doorway. Gilbert could even see his friend Saxon from the fight muttering darkly with old Sergeant Hesse from the transport truck. He laughed softly. It was a good thing to be feared out here. Gilbert's entire motivation, from the moment he and Roderich stepped onto that truck, was to make it abundantly clear he was not to be messed with. It looked like the message was sinking in. "I wouldn't worry about it, Feliks. They're all scared of me, that's all."

Gilbert placed a cigarette between his lips, patted his pockets, then realised he did not have a light. "Shit." Just as he was fumbling around for a twig to place in the fire, a burning light appeared before him. The Swiss captain, Zwingli, stared down with an outstretched match and a blank expression. Gilbert grinned widely. "Thanks, Captain!" He leant forward, lit the cigarette, and sucked the smoke in desperately. It had been far too long since he had last breathed that delicious burn into his lungs.

"For the so-called Lion of the North, I thought you'd have a louder roar." Gilbert glanced up again, confused by the words, but Zwingli's eyes were focused on Oxenstierna. The Swede just gave an offhanded shrug. Zwingli folded his arms and nodded distinctly at Oxenstierna's gun. "Give me one reason I shouldn't take that rifle off you, soldier."

Oxenstierna paused, took a deep breath, then met Zwingli's eyes with a look that sent a shudder down Gilbert's spine. "'t's killed a lot'f Russians. Sir."

Zwingli narrowed his eyes, then gave a brief, upward nod. "Good reason. Mosin-Nagant M28-30, isn't it?" Oxenstierna nodded, and Zwingli's gaze fell on the photograph. "I believe those are quite popular among Finnish snipers. But snipers don't let go of their rifles easily." Oxenstierna nodded again, slower this time. "It's a good gun. You keep killing Russians with it, rather than threatening my men, and I'll have no reason to take it off you. But no more wasting bullets – those things aren't free. Now." Zwingli pointed at Gilbert. "You. Prussian."

"Yeah? Sir?" Gilbert blinked the surprise from his eyes and took a draw on his cigarette. What the hell was with this captain? Any other officer would have taken that rifle in a heartbeat after an incident like that. Zwingli barely seemed to care.

"How long you been out here?"

"Russia, a year sir. Been fighting through Europe since the start."

"Hm. Four years." Zwingli's eyes focused on the medals adorning Gilbert's jacket. "You look like you can handle yourself. I'm promoting you to corporal." He nodded at the other three men. "This here's your team."

Gilbert paused for a moment, his blood turning hot as it rose to his head. A promotion? Sure, this captain was unlike any he had ever known, but he didn't seem like the type to play games. Gilbert laughed shakily. "Are you serious?"

Zwingli's jaw hardened. He looked quite put out at the insinuation. "Do I look like I'm joking, soldier?"

Gilbert couldn't help looking at Roderich for his reaction. The Austrian looked stunned with disbelief. Gilbert smirked, though he couldn't quite believe it himself. "Three years in this army and not a damn word about promotion. One day in a prison unit and I'm a corporal. I should've got myself arrested years ago, I'd be a major by now!"

"Don't get excited, Prussian. Your competition was an Austrian princess, a retarded Pole, and a Swede with gender identification issues. I'm placing you four at the front, because let's face it…" Zwingli glanced around the square and the glaring soldiers pointedly. "You're not gonna last long anyway. I'm calling you Team Fairy. Any objections?"

"Ooh!" said Feliks brightly. "I like fairies!"

Gilbert could almost feel Roderich's silent incensement. Gilbert just laughed. It wasn't like he hadn't heard worse. He stretched his legs before him, exhaling a lungful of smoke while staring Zwingli stubbornly in the eye. "There wouldn't be any, uh, double meaning behind that name, would there, sir?"

Zwingli's eyebrow twitched, but he remained stone faced. "None at all, Corporal. It's just that I've already named Team Leprechaun and Team Gnome across the square. I've got your orders for tomorrow. You ready?"

Gilbert grinned. "Oh, I'm always ready, Captain."

Zwingli smirked. "I'll remember that, Prussian. Now listen carefully, because I've got a feeling you're the only one here who'll understand this. Besides maybe Oxenstierna, but I haven't figured out if he actually understands German yet. Now. There's a German battalion further up near Kalova village. It's a dirty shithole of absolutely no strategic importance whatsoever. But the Russians want this town, and when the Reds want something, the bastards get it – no matter the cost. Casualties have been heavy on both sides. The Germans have been holding on without reinforcements for weeks now, and they're close to their breaking point." Gilbert pondered quietly on that. How interesting that Zwingli seemed to make a distinction between himself and 'the Germans.' "They've even been putting the rear echelon base stallions into the line, and now that they are down to their last few cooks and clerks, this is where we come into it."

Roderich breathed heavily, his eyes wide and his hands gripping the wooden doorstep. Feliks returned to filing his nails. Oxenstierna gripped his rifle, unmoving, his lips set in a hard line as he stared unblinking at the captain. Zwingli, however, spoke only to Gilbert in that steady, commanding tone. "HQ wants to pull the exhausted unit out of the line, stabilise the front, and create a stronger position further back. But while the newspapers like heroic last stands, the German infantry have a rather different view on the matter. And as we all know…" Zwingli smirked sarcastically, "The mighty Wehrmacht never retreats. So, while our erstwhile comrades in arms relocate to their new position of relative safety, we shall be covering their arses by moving into their old lines around Kalova. Basically, we'll be holding off the Russki's to buy the regulars time to create and fortify their new position. There's only one problem."

"Oh, isn't there always," muttered Gilbert. He was already starting to feel both excited and edgy at the captain's words. Excited, because he hadn't been involved in a mission that required actual intelligent thinking for months. Edgy, because this sounded like a suicide mission.

Zwingli spoke with his hands clasped behind his back and his head held high. His blonde hair hung loosely to his chin. Gilbert really had to wonder at the lack of proper haircuts in this new unit. "Intelligence tells us that an attack is brewing. 'Imminent', I believe the actual word was – and we'll be in the thick of it. Some Russian commander has decreed that this town will fall, so fall it shall. The only question is when. But we will hold that town to the last bullet and the last man if necessary. Your lives are meaningless, forfeit. You were dead the moment you stepped off that truck. Now." Zwingli bounced once on his heels, smiling around at the four men. "Is that understood?"

Gilbert took a very deep breath, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and breathed in the last of his cigarette. Roderich and Feliks were blank-faced, but a quick glance showed that Oxenstierna seemed to have understood Zwingli's words as well as Gilbert. The Swede's face was still set in that cold, detached expression, but his eyes were wide with alarm.

"So, uh…" Gilbert broke off and stubbed his cigarette into the ground. The dirt was cold against his fingers. He'd had orders barked at him a thousand times, but always with the carrot of survival dangling at the end. This time, he was actually expected to die. "What you're telling me, Captain, is that this company of fifty men is going to try and hold a village against an entire Russian battalion?"

"You're a sharp one, Prussian."

Gilbert turned to see Roderich staring at him, wide-eyed and confused. Gilbert forced his lips into a grin, then threw back his head and laughed. "I thought this unit was supposed to be a punishment. Hell, this sounds like fun."

Surprisingly, it was Feliks who stated the obvious. "We'll be killed," he said simply.

"Maybe so, soldier." Zwingli bared his teeth in a wide grin and clutched the pistol at his side, his eyes lighting up with something not quite sane. "But we'll take some Russians with us."

.

"Useless," muttered Gilbert for the fourth time, rifling through the mid-sized ration pack he'd been handed earlier. "Goddamned fucking useless."

Roderich glanced down at his own pack. He was rather afraid of looking through it, if Gilbert's reaction was anything to go by. Oxenstierna's pack sat beside him, ignored. Feliks had tipped his out and was currently inspecting the contents by the illumination of the nearby truck lights and the still flickering fire. "No chocolate," Feliks said finally, disappointment on his face and in his voice. He sat back and threw his hands up, appalled. "How can they give us a ration pack without chocolate?"

"No chocolate, no coffee, no supplemental candy rations." Gilbert sounded disgusted as he continued searching the bag. "But, oh, hey…" Gilbert held up a small green roll and grinned. "Vivil mints."

"Ooh!" Feliks dove back into his small pile of blue tins and brown packages, rummaging in search of the little mint packet.

The moon was high in the sky, the fire still burned, and the four soldiers had not moved in hours. No one came near them, unsurprisingly. Roderich had absolutely no idea how Gilbert had survived for three years with his apparent sheer, bloody-minded determination to infuriate the entire German military. The other soldiers started to filter away to the nominated sleeping quarters in the old town hall, but Gilbert, Feliks and the Swede made no move to follow them. Roderich had no desire to wander off on his own again any time soon, so it looked like he was stuck with the three men for now. In fact, it looked like they would be sticking together from now on, as part of Corporal Beilschmidt's team. Roderich did not know whether to laugh or scream. Being completely honest with himself, however, Roderich had to acknowledge that he felt far safer by Gilbert's side than he had these last few nights alone. He was also quite certain nothing had ever bothered or frightened him quite as much as this realisation.

Roderich looked from the small pile before Feliks to his own ration pack. It was far too small. "This is just for tomorrow though, yes? We'll be given more food after the… the battle, surely?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Don't count on it, Roddy."

Roderich was horrified. "But… but what is this? Tinned meat? Hard bread? How long are we expected to last on this?" Three bemused and faintly derisive stares met his, and Roderich quickly looked away. He tossed the pack disdainfully to the side, embarrassment colouring his cheeks. Just how was he supposed to know how things worked in the army? He was a musician, not a soldier. He was a musician, and this was madness. "Well, it's terribly inefficient, if anything. If the German military wants their soldiers to succeed they should consider providing proper nourishment."

Gilbert let out a snort of laughter, but Oxenstierna spoke up before the German could respond. "Wish they had tea instead'f coffee."

"I just wish they had chocolate," said Feliks, ripping into the green packet of mints he had finally managed to find.

"Good God, I wish they had beer," said Gilbert dreamily. "I'd cut off my right hand for a stein of beer."

Feliks laughed. "I bet you wouldn't."

Gilbert glared at him and straightened up confrontationally. "I bet I would."

Feliks spoke around the mint in his mouth. "Well, that would just be, like, stupid, wouldn't it, because then you'd have to drink with your left hand, and that's totally rude. Don't you Germans know anything?"

Roderich didn't know whether to laugh. A tight bundle of nerves sat uneasily in his stomach, Captain Zwingli's words about the mission tomorrow echoing through his head. The entire time Zwingli had spoken to Gilbert, Roderich could not shake the strange feeling that he had seen the Swiss captain somewhere before. But the ensuing ridiculous conversation of his companions somehow kept his worst fears and anxiety at bay. Roderich was just wondering why that was, when a sudden loud blast echoed through the square, followed by the crackling radio.

…_9:55pm and this is Radio Belgrade, signing off, with 'Lili Marlene.' _And then the music started.

_Underneath the lantern, by the barrack gate,  
>Darling I remember, the way you used to wait…<em>

The village square fell into a deep silence. The very air seemed to stop moving. In the still, eerie peace, Roderich let the music wash over him immediately. It was the same song he had heard the night before. The same marching beat, the same pretty voice. And yet, Roderich still craved the music; still felt himself fall into it. The knot of fear in his stomach loosened, the uneasy anxiety about the morning lessened, and Roderich breathed in the brass and drums and the silence between the beats. His fingers again itched for the touch of a violin, for the relief of a piano. His familiar ache and agony for this beautiful, comforting music overruled all other petty concerns of food and shelter and safety.

_And there 'neath that far off lantern light,  
>I'd hold you tight, we'd kiss goodnight,<br>My lily of the lamplight,  
>My own Lili Marlene.<em>

"They played this song last night, also," Roderich finally whispered, to no one in particular. "At the last village."

Gilbert laughed shortly. His deep voice sounded so much louder in the deep still night, with only the marching beats of a wartime propaganda song behind him. "Get used to it. You'll hear this song a lot out here. Radio Belgrade plays it every night, and there's always someone at every base who'll turn the vehicle radios on and blast it through."

Roderich wondered at that. Why this song? There was far better music in popular circulation. Far better songs. So why did the radio play this one? Why did the soldiers try so hard to hear it? "Why?" he asked simply.

It was Feliks who answered. "Well, it's about, like, someone left behind, isn't it, Fred? And everyone out here has left someone behind. Everyone has their own Lili Marlene." Silence fell again. It seemed Feliks could be surprisingly astute beneath that dim outward demeanour. Roderich was surprised to find that he liked Feliks. If he had met him at home, in Vienna, Roderich would have hated him. But out here, where life was unsure and people were uncertain, Roderich like the little Pole. How could he not like someone who filed their nails at an army base? "I used to sing this," Feliks continued softly. "At my cabaret, in Berlin. It was really popular." And then Feliks sang along with the sweet voice pouring from the radio, his voice soft and bright and clear.

"_Resting in a billet just behind the line,  
>Even tho' we're parted your lips are close to mine.<br>You wait where that lantern softly gleams,  
>Your sweet face seems to haunt my dreams."<em>

Feliks stared at the fire as he sang, his eyes far away. Oxenstierna's gaze rested on his rifle. Roderich listened, finding Feliks' voice strangely soothing with the music, feeling oddly calm despite this confusing, desperate situation he'd somehow ended up in. It took him a few moments to realise that Gilbert was looking at him. Roderich felt his heart jump to his throat. "What?"

Gilbert's eyes were narrow, his head tilted. "This song. Does it remind you of anything?"

Roderich blinked in confusion. What a strange thing to ask… "I barely know it," he replied. "I'd never really heard it before last night."

Gilbert just nodded, almost reluctantly. "All right. Okay." Roderich wanted to ask why Gilbert would even think to ask that. But he could not help listening to Feliks singing the last of the lyrics, his clear, charming voice slicing through the dark night.

"_You wait where that lantern softly gleams,  
>Your sweet face seems to haunt my dreams.<br>My lily of the lamplight,  
>My own Lili Marlene."<em>

Almost the second the song finished, the truck lights switched off and Zwingli's booming voice carried through the square. "Bedtime, children!"

Feliks breathed a sharp, hissing gasp. "Oh, damn."

"Somethin' wrong?"

Roderich glanced at Oxenstierna in surprise. The man had barely spoken a word all night unless spoken to. Feliks looked over at the town hall, then down at his hands as he answered.

"There's, like, a lot of men I don't know in there and I get nervous around people I don't know sometimes and they sort of…" Feliks trailed into a mumble. "…scare me," he finished quietly.

"Well, _they're_ scared'f _me."_ Oxenstierna swung his rifle and pack over his shoulder, drew himself to his feet, and stared down at Feliks. "And ye said ye'd stick with me, right?"

Feliks paused, nodded, then broke into a smile. He scrambled quickly to his feet. "Sure did, Kociak!"

Roderich's eyes met Gilbert's. "Kociak?"

Gilbert shrugged. "No idea, Fred." Roderich had to bite back a laugh. He put his pack over his shoulder, preparing to follow Feliks and Oxenstierna into the hall. He was stopped by Gilbert's hand on his. "Wait."

At the unexpected touch, an immediate shock of heat raced across Roderich's skin, through his veins and into his chest, where his heart started pounding. Roderich snatched his hand away as though he'd been burnt.

"I'm sorry, I…" Gilbert blinked away his stunned expression and almost choked on his apology. He brushed his hair back and scowled. "I was just going to say something before you left."

Roderich breathed deeply, commanding his pulse to stop racing. Why on earth had he reacted like that? "Well, what?" he asked shortly. He took another deep breath. He was jumpy out here, that was all – the stupid German had surprised him.

"Tomorrow," said Gilbert, already looking as though nothing had happened. "You will do everything I tell you, understand?"

Roderich raised his chin indignantly. "I beg your pardon?"

A brief flash of anger crossed Gilbert's face as his eyes flashed. "Do NOT even start that. I am not playing games. If you want to survive tomorrow, you will listen to me. You will do what I tell you, and you will not question me. You have no idea what you are doing on a battlefield. You've never even held a gun, for Christ's sake. Now you can obey my orders, and have a chance. Or you can play the snotty little brat you are, ignore me, and you can die."

Roderich's eyes widened at the words. His pulse raced again, for an entirely different reason. He was infuriated by Gilbert's foul-mannered words, but more that that, he was horrified. He was afraid. And he was so angry about it he could not even respond. Gilbert's eyes softened. In the last of the firelight, their colour was warmer than usual; softer.

"Look. This mission tomorrow is gonna be a bastard. But I haven't survived this long out here for nothing. Just do what I say, yeah?" Gilbert paused briefly. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly kind. "I'll look after you."

Roderich was about to retort that he did not need anyone to look after him, then realised, angrily, that it wasn't quite true. He also realised it was a very strange thing for a man he'd known for little more than a day to say to him. Roderich sighed, dropped his pack, and leant back against the little doorway. There wasn't much point in worrying too much over it, after all. He had tried to ignore it all night, but the truth was still there, painfully lodged in his heart and his head. He would probably die tomorrow. Roderich looked down at his hands, and decided that if ever there was a time to let down his proud guard, this would be it. "So, what do you do?" he asked softly. "You soldiers. The night before... battle, I suppose you'd call it. It feels so strange to just be sitting here, peacefully, when tomorrow we might die."

Gilbert leant back beside him. "But that's everyday, isn't it? And not just in a war zone. You could be sitting safe and sound in your house in Austria and drop dead tomorrow. You could choke on your caviar or something."

Roderich paused. "I never cared for caviar." Gilbert laughed, and Roderich peered at him curiously before continuing. How could Gilbert still seem so untroubled? Roderich had been suppressing an underlying panic all evening. "Well. What you say is true, but... it's more likely I'll die _this_ tomorrow, isn't it?"

Gilbert nodded and hummed agreement. "Oh, it's more likely, absolutely. Apparently, it's almost certain."

"But you don't believe that."

Gilbert winked. "Nothing's certain."

Roderich almost laughed. That was certainly true. It was true, and Gilbert understood it also. What an unexpected realisation. "So... what do you do?"

The wind turned even colder as it blew across the flickering firelight. Gilbert looked at a loss as how to answer the question. He tapped his feet together, tilted his head, breathed out deeply. Then he shrugged. "Some pray."

Roderich raised an eyebrow. "You don't?"

Gilbert looked faintly amused. "No. I don't waste my breath whispering to the empty air."

Roderich had to ask about that. "Empty?"

"Empty." Gilbert repeated the word, soft but firm, drifting on the cold summer wind. "The Germans pray. The Russians pray. The Jews pray. Is it doing any of 'em any good?"

Roderich did not even know. All he knew of belief was long ago memories of rich red cloth and golden candles; of deeply carved brown chairs and late Friday afternoon sunshine through the tall windows of the Stadttempel. But that was when Roderich was a child, back before his parents fled Europe. Back before the Kristallnacht, when prayers to his God were allowed. Roderich did not pray, but he could see why men out here would. Their God was allowed, after all. "Maybe they pray for comfort," he said, grasping for a reason, grasping for meaning. "Maybe it does them good for that reason."

Gilbert scoffed, rolled his eyes up to the dark, endless sky. "You sound like my silly little brother." He shook his head. "Every day I see men die, Roderich. Do you think it makes a difference if the poor bastard prayed the night before? I've survived this war longer than anyone, and I've never asked for a damn bit of help. Not from God, not from anyone. And yet I'm still here, while good God-fearing men fall dead all around me. Praying don't make a bit of difference, little prince."

Roderich peered at Gilbert, intrigued. He still had absolutely no idea what to think of this German. Every single moment with the man gave Roderich something else to consider. "You don't believe in God."

Gilbert shook his head. "I believe in things higher than God."

Roderich let silence fall, and contemplated the words. "Like what?" he asked finally.

"My family. My friends." Gilbert shrugged, and grinned. "Beer. I believe in beer."

Roderich laughed softly. He sighed and stared up into the dark, star-studded sky. "I think all I believe in is music. I wonder if that's enough."

Gilbert leant forward, his warmth spreading to Roderich's shoulder, and spoke surprisingly fervently. "Believe that you'll survive another day, Roderich. And don't just believe in tomorrow. Believe in next week, and next month, and next year. Believe in survival. Believe in joyful survival."

Roderich could not stop his eyes turning again towards the strange, arrogant, confusing man beside him. He still did not know why Gilbert seemed so concerned with him, with his safety. Maybe the man was simply crazy, and did not need a reason. As he gazed intently at the unfathomable German, his white hair and brilliant eyes and intense features, Roderich noticed a faint scar on Gilbert's nose. It must have been broken at some point. "Survival," said Roderich thoughtfully. "Is that what you believe in?"

Gilbert grinned, his bronze eyes glinting, his pale skin turned golden by the dying flames of the flickering fire. "Drink deep. Have fun. Stay alive. It's got me this far." He laughed shortly. "And it's what's gonna get me through."

* * *

><p><em>To be continued…<em>

* * *

><p><em>Lili Marlene lyrics by Tommie Connor<em>

_(YouTube) /watch?v=YGvrCvEmaMI_


	4. Chapter 4

_So, um... sorry about the wait! I have so much ready and planned, and I'm totally excited to get back into this little Veraverse of mine. I hope you guys are too. ;-)_

_As always, a million thanks to the wonderful Kay. __x_

* * *

><p>"East flank, stragglers. Shoot!"<p>

"They're retreating, save your bullets…"

"Grenade incoming!"

"Get _down!"_

Roderich thought he'd be terrified by battle. After all, he'd been terrified by everything else out here, as much as he tried to hide it. But hunched against this deep trench wall amidst this onslaught of commotion, Roderich felt nothing but overwhelming, head-spinning confusion. This place was too mad for him to fathom; too unreal for him to think. This was all too strange for Roderich to feel fear.

"Reload, fast, they won't take long to regroup."

"I need more ammo, here!"

"We all need more ammo, pal."

The shouts were muffled in Roderich's ears. Nearby explosions rattled the lines of wire overhead; ear-splitting whistles pierced the smoky sky. Groups of men stretched along the dirty ditch, on steps cut into the wall, aiming weapons over a blockade of broken doors and tables. But it was the captain whom Roderich could not take his eyes from.

"Run, assholes! Cut 'em down, soldiers!" Captain Zwingli stood on an upturned cart above the trench, a cigarette between his teeth, grinning madly as he emptied another magazine of ammunition into the foggy air. Four bullet cases lay empty at his feet. Even as enemy fire shattered the wooden barricade around him, Zwingli looked like he was having the time of his life. When his rifle finally emptied he simply tossed it to the ground, took another from his back, and kept shooting.

"Holy Mother of God." Roderich startled at the exclamation, then choked back an embarrassing gasp of relief to see Gilbert make his way back through a pile of packs and weapons. He sat heavily onto the step beside Roderich, flicked a cigarette butt to the ground, and glanced up at Zwingli spraying bullets into the air. "This bastard is fucking insane."

"Yep." Oxenstierna drew back his rifle and crouched beside them. His blue eyes were like steel behind his glasses. "He's finishin' off the wounded."

Roderich's already queasy stomach churned at the words. Gilbert just reloaded his rifle, shaking his head suspiciously. "How the hell has he not been shot? Crazy fuck should be dead by now." He slammed the steel bolt into place, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and fixed Oxenstierna with a concentrated stare. "I managed to get a look at our left flank. They've come close, but they're just looking for weak spots. I'd say this advance is only a distraction before the main assault."

"They're massing in the trees. I can make out a dozen or so from here." Feliks dropped to the ground from the crate he was using to scout over the trench. He tucked his binoculars into his belt and reached for his rifle instead. "You all right there, Fred?"

Roderich was not all right. Roderich was lost and disoriented and simply more confused than he had ever been in his entire life. He was also determined not to show it. "I'm perfectly fine." He tried to straighten up. Gilbert immediately pushed him back down.

"Keep your goddamn head down, how many times do I have to tell you! Oxenstierna, you keeping an eye on those SS bastards?"

Oxenstierna answered before Roderich could even think to feel insulted. "Hesse's got a pistol. 's'in his belt."

"A pistol?" Gilbert's eyes gleamed red. "Now, where did our old friend get his filthy hands on one of those?"

Feliks shot a narrow glare at the team a few feet further down the trench. "Same place he got that machine gun, probably."

Roderich followed the blatantly hostile stares. The team beside them consisted of Hesse, the sergeant Gilbert had provoked in the transport truck, and Saxon, the former SS officer whose cigarettes Gilbert was currently chain-smoking. Unlike the other men in the unit, they were using one gun between them. It rested on a tripod and was much bigger than the rifles the unit had been armed with that morning. Roderich's own rifle was slung over his shoulder, unused. He still did not know what to do with it, and Gilbert seemed intent on refusing him the chance to find out.

"They're shootin' too often," said Oxenstierna, his normally blank expression tinged with disdain. "Gonna overheat th'barrel."

Gilbert spat at the ground. Roderich glanced away in disgust. "They don't know what the hell they're doing. We've gotta get that gun off them."

Oxenstierna raised an eyebrow, cautiously intrigued. "'f we take't, we'll start a fight."

Gilbert looked delighted by the possibility. "Probably, yeah."

Oxenstierna's lip curled slightly upwards, his eyes flashing calculatedly. "Not a good idea."

Gilbert grinned and winked. "Probably not."

"Another wave, incoming!" Captain Zwingli's voice boomed down from above. Roderich looked up to see him rip a grenade from his belt, tear the pin out with his teeth, and hurl it into the field. He spat the pin into the trench. "Am I defending this village by myself? Prepare for incoming, you idiots!"

Gilbert and Oxenstierna hastened to their feet as a flurry of activity erupted around them, orders shouted down the line while men scrambled to their positions. Roderich's stomach fell and his spine turned cold. Incoming? What did that mean? Were the Russians advancing? What was he supposed to do? Roderich could see nothing outside of this narrow trench. He tried stretching his neck to make out what was going on, but Gilbert just pushed him down again.

"Head DOWN little prince!"

Roderich's hands clenched in frustration, anger heating the cold anxiety in his veins. How could he know what to do when no one told him anything? "But… but there must be something I can…"

"You can sit there and you can shut up." Gilbert did not even look at Roderich as he said it.

_Now_ Roderich was insulted. That was too far. That was too far, and this was too much, too fast, and his head was spinning, and… "Hi, Fred." Feliks crouched beside Roderich, smiling, and took an unlit cigarette from his mouth. "How are you going?"

Roderich had never been asked a more complicated question in his life. "I… I thought you didn't smoke."

Feliks looked at the cigarette. "Oh, I don't light it. I just like to have something in my mouth."

Roderich had to close his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Feliks was extending a little green packet towards him. Roderich just stared at it.

"You can hold my mints if you like," said Feliks cheerfully.

"I…" There was nothing to say. Roderich took the small roll carefully.

Feliks continued unfazed. "I remember my first battle." He raised his eyes to the sky and whistled. "Now that was really crazy, yeah? We weren't lucky enough to have a trench. We had nothing but a bombed out street, a few broken walls, and a thousand Englishman armed with grenades. I didn't know what to do. I didn't even know we were supposed to be fighting the English."

Roderich swallowed another wave of nausea. Feliks seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and to have no idea at the same time. He also seemed completely unperturbed by this entire situation. "What did you do?" Roderich asked hesitantly.

"I shot 'em."

Roderich suppressed his surprise. "Oh."

"I don't like killing people, Fred. But you've gotta remember - they're trying to kill us. And if it's them or me…" Feliks shrugged bluntly. "I choose me. You're lucky you've got someone looking out for you. Sir Gil is totally hot."

Roderich struggled to keep up with this erratic dialogue. He could not think how to respond to something so ridiculous. "Do, uh… do you think so?"

"Um, are you, like, blind, Fred?" Feliks giggled and nudged Roderich's shoulder. "And he must really like you."

Roderich paused for the briefest second, his gaze turning almost unconsciously upwards. Gilbert leant over his rifle, deep in conversation with Oxenstierna, his entire attitude one of complete confidence. Why _did_ the German insist on trying to keep Roderich safe? Surely… "No." Roderich shook his head firmly. He could not begin to fathom why Gilbert was intent on protecting him, but it was quite obvious the man despised him. "No, Feliks, that's not it."

Feliks did not look convinced. "Well, whatever, just keep doing what he says. I've been out here long enough to know that his orders are worth following."

A heated explosion erupted nearby and Gilbert shouted abruptly. "Feliks!"

"Excuse me, Fred." Feliks replaced the unlit cigarette in his mouth, stood, and set his rifle beside the others.

Roderich ran a shaking hand over his head and watched the three soldiers aim their weapons. "Take your time," said Gilbert, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Make each shot count." It suddenly occurred to Roderich that he was the only one experiencing this tremendous confusion. These men knew how to defend a position, knew how to fire at an enemy. For the first time, Roderich felt just a little ashamed of how useless he was out here.

But when the shooting started, the shame vanished. Roderich's head turned light; his breath came too fast. The sound of fifty rifles firing, of the machine gun blasting, of the explosions outside the trench; it all drove like knives into his skull, a dissonant cacophony he could not comprehend. All Roderich knew was that he should not be here. This was still too dreamlike, too bizarre to be real. Yet here he was, burning with cold sweat in a filthy uniform, huddled in a dirty ditch with a group of murdering criminals. Forced to rely on a dim Pole, a silent Swede, the most unfathomable German he'd ever met, and an insane captain who seemed intent on getting them all killed. He should not be here. He was better than this. Roderich was better than this, yet here he was.

The attack did not last long this time. A short barrage of deafening gunfire, a final shattering burst from the machine gun, and silence fell again. When Gilbert turned and fell against the wall, Roderich could only raise a quizzical glance. "Retreated," Gilbert explained gruffly.

But it was over so fast... "Why do they keep charging?"

"They've got enough men to waste." Gilbert loaded a magazine of ammunition into his rifle. He didn't seem flustered by any of this. He switched easily between a sort of stern vigilance, and disdainful cavalierism. Roderich supposed after four years, the German had probably seen worse.

Along the trench, chatter broke out amongst the men. Some sat and reloaded; others remained watching over the barricade. Oxenstierna handed Feliks a canteen of water as they leant against the wall. Everything seemed to slow, and calm, until a green-suited figure jumped heavily into the trench before them. Captain Zwingli grinned broadly at the team of four, a rifle in one hand and a small black carry-case in the other. He was breathing heavily, but he looked positively gleeful. "How goes it, boys?"

Gilbert gave a small wave in reply. "Marvellous, sir."

Zwingli swung the rifle onto his shoulder and bounced once on his heels. "Wonderful."

"I just have one question," said Gilbert airily, removing his helmet and smoothing back his hair.

Zwingli arched an eyebrow.

"How are you not dead?"

Zwingli laughed manically. "Not my time, Prussian. Not my time. Polack!"

Feliks swallowed his water heavily and spluttered a reply. "Sir?"

Zwingli nodded at Feliks' weapon. "I see you know which end of a rifle to point. That's slightly more than I expected, and deserves praise. How's that Mosin holding up, Oxenstierna?"

Oxenstierna grunted in response.

"Prussian, teach this man German. Héderváry! What are you doing down there?"

Roderich managed to feel annoyed when Gilbert answered for him. "He's staying out of the way."

"I see." Roderich shrunk from Zwingli's piercing stare. This change from the captain's disturbingly blank demeanour was mildly terrifying. "Tell me, Austrian," Zwingli continued, "You might be useless, but you _can_ talk, yes?"

_Useless_. Roderich let out a short, resigned breath. After all, what was the point in feeling offended all the time? "Yes," he replied flatly. "I can talk."

"Here." Zwingli dropped the black case onto the wooden step. Despite himself, Roderich regarded it curiously. A small silver plaque was embedded into the black leather, engraved with random words beside each letter of the alphabet. Zwingli fell to one knee and clicked the case open to reveal a telephone with a list of numbers. "When I give the order, get on to HQ and call down an artillery strike on the coordinates I give you. You can use this any time you need to call in support, understand?"

Roderich was so tired of not comprehending a word anyone said. He drew his eyebrows together and slowly met Zwingli's eyes level with his own. "No, I… I don't think I understand."

Zwingli took a deep breath through his nose, closed his eyes, and muttered something unintelligible. It sounded oddly like he was counting. Then he swiftly turned his head away. "You will."

The moment Zwingli stood, a runner raced up beside them. Zwingli turned to the soldier, rubbed his palms together, and barked, "Right. Who's dead?"

The soldier replied breathlessly. "Two from the left flank. Grenade."

"Good." Zwingli nodded shortly before marching off. "Get me their ammo. And their boots."

Roderich looked down at the strange phone in the black case. It was as unfamiliar and confusing as the unused rifle on his back; as this entire insufferable situation. Why had Zwingli even given it to him? Roderich was useless. He put a hand to his head, wanting to steady it, then with a flush of heat noticed Gilbert staring at him. Roderich immediately straightened his shoulders and tried to shake this helpless feeling away. The last thing he needed was another of Gilbert's insults. He reached for the rifle across his shoulder. "Well, um… what else can I do?"

Strangely, Gilbert's eyes softened. He knelt on the step and took Roderich's hand from his rifle. "Stop, you don't even know how to hold it. It's not your fault the military gave you no training. When we make it out of this, I'll teach you to shoot."

Roderich's cold hand burned where Gilbert touched it. He quickly snatched it away. "You'll teach me?"

"Yeah. But right now, for Christ's sake…" Gilbert's eyes hardened again as he stood. "Stay down."

.

Gilbert kept his head low and his Karabiner rifle covered as he surveyed the flat, tree-bordered expanse before the trench. The barren battlefield was dotted with smoking shell-holes, with mounds of dirt, with lifeless Russian bodies caught in barbed wire and strewn across the ground. He'd seen better, but hell, he'd seen a lot worse. Maybe this wasn't exactly the hopeless situation they'd been led to expect.

"Yer doin' good, Héderváry."

Oxenstierna's quiet mumble broke Gilbert's fixed attention from the terrain. He blinked down to see the Swede take a seat beside the Austrian, carefully organising cartridges of ammunition into the clips on his belt. Gilbert actually liked this Lion of the North. He was quiet, he did as he was told, he unwittingly intimidated the majority of fellow prisoners, and he had one of the best aims Gilbert had ever seen. As for Roderich...

"I'm not doing anything." Roderich sounded impatient as he answered. He sat with his shoulders tensed, his arms folded and his gaze set straight forward. "And I am not a coward."

Gilbert gritted his teeth. Of course this was the hopeless situation he'd been led to expect.

Oxenstierna's expression barely changed. If anything, he looked faintly amused. His Mosin-Nagant rested over his shoulder – that photograph remained in place always, even when he fired the weapon. "Never said ye were."

Roderich paused. He darted his eyes to the side, bit his lip, took a deep breath. Finally, he answered, "…No. Sorry. And... thank you, Oxenstierna."

Gilbert's eyebrows shot up and his cigarette nearly fell from his teeth. Had Roderich really just apologised and expressed gratitude in the same breath? Gilbert felt the sudden urge to clean his ear out with a fingertip. Oxenstierna simply replied, "Ye can call me Berwald if ye like."

"Oh." Roderich slowly brushed the hair from his forehead. How the hell did it manage to stay so clean in this dust, anyway? "Yes. Very well, all right. And, uh... you may call me Roderich. Or Fred, I suppose, if you must."

_What?_ Gilbert just about spluttered in indignation. Why was this prissy Austrian able to attempt civility with everyone but him? Gilbert blew out an angry breath of smoke. It wasn't like he cared, after all. This was a goddamn battle; he had more important things to care about. Like Roderich's inability to shoot, to fight, to do anything really but sit looking indecently pretty and annoyingly vulnerable. Or like the fact Gilbert had just offered to teach him to shoot a rifle, as though the delicate prince could even lift it. Or like…

The bone-rattling sound of a blasting MG42 abruptly punctured the relative calm. Like that machine gun, for instance. How the hell had Hesse and Saxon, of all men, ended up in control of the only heavy machine gun in this unit's possession? Hesse was currently firing the weapon at nothing, erratically letting it off in short, sharp bursts, while Saxon leant beside him, laughing inanely. Gilbert exchanged a brief look with Oxenstierna, who raised a single eyebrow. Gilbert could see the Swede's thoughts perfectly - that gun was the best hope this unit had, and it was in the hands of idiots who didn't know how to use it.

"Psst. Sir Gil." Feliks motioned Gilbert closer from the floor of the trench.

Gilbert crouched so they were eye level. "What's the problem?"

Feliks leant forward, lowered his helmet, and muttered softly. "They're, like, totally doing it wrong. The MG42 operations manual specifies one hundred and fifty rounds before changing the barrel. That gun is going to jam. Plus, they're shooting at nothing, and totally wasting ammo."

Gilbert didn't know whether to be amused or impressed. "Operations manual?"

Feliks gestured vaguely. "I had to teach myself these things."

"Don't worry." Gilbert winked and flicked his cigarette to the ground. "I'm gonna get us that gun. The pistol, too." Gilbert briefly regarded the growing mountain of Aviatik butts at his feet. "And their cigarettes."

Feliks' face brightened and he gave a tiny salute. "Good work, sir. I'm right behind you. Can we take their mints, too?"

Gilbert bit his tongue to keep from laughing. Sure, Feliks was a little slow on some things and his whistling sort of got on Gilbert's nerves and he had an almost pathological obsession with Vivil mints, but it was a nice change to have someone around who wasn't so damned serious all the time.

"Sure thing, Feliks. Now, the plan is…" Gilbert broke off abruptly. Shit, what was the plan? He glanced desperately past Feliks' expectant expression, and instantly spotted his answer. The plan was marching past them down the trench. "Sir!"

Zwingli stopped in his tracks when Gilbert scrambled to the ground and offered him a cigarette. "There's only one machine gun."

Zwingli sighed heavily, took the cigarette, and placed it behind his ear. "Prussian, what did I ever do without you around to point out the goddamn bleeding obvious?"

Gilbert ignored him. "Listen, if those incompetent arseholes keep on the way they are, they're gonna use up all our ammo - if they don't overheat..."

Zwingli interrupted. "Is this leading to something, Corporal? Because as fascinating as this little chat is, you do realise there's about three thousand Russians out there right now, all about to come charging towards this trench screaming _'Urrah'_ and intent on blowing your Fascist brains out in the name of the Motherland."

Well, Gilbert had to admire his honesty. "Which is why I need that machine gun."

As though to prove his point, another deafening round fired from the weapon in question. Zwingli immediately spun on his heel and bellowed, "Hesse, you fucking idiot! Hold your fire before I jam that barrel up your arse, if Private Saxon hasn't got there already. Off the gun, it's going to Team Fairy."

Gilbert was starting to like this crazy captain. He snorted with laughter while Feliks broke into outright giggles behind him. Hesse and Saxon reacted immediately to the order, their expressions furiously incredulous. Saxon tore off his helmet, his long, blond hair matted to his forehead. "What?" he spat.

Hesse took a step into the trench, his stance threatening and his scarred face red with anger. "You're giving it to _Beilschmidt_? Why?!"

Nearby soldiers turned to watch – even in a besieged trench they seemed to sense potential violence, and hunger for it. Zwingli's hard, calculating gaze swept carefully over the prisoners before settling on the two gunners. He approached them slowly, his head tilted dangerously. "Are you _questioning_ me?" He did not stop until he stood inches from the ex-sergeant, a full head shorter.

"You bet I…" Hesse got no further. In one swift movement, Zwingli tore the pistol from Hesse's belt, slammed it viciously against his ear, and struck him to his knees.

Not much really shocked Gilbert anymore. But this fairly small captain incapacitating a much larger man with one bloody, unexpected blow was, at the very least, surprising. Saxon took a wary step back; nothing but stunned silence came from the watching men.

"I _said,"_ Zwingli continued, his voice low and coldly controlled as he stood over the subdued German, "off the fucking gun."

Gilbert was _really _starting to like this crazy captain. "You heard the man." Gilbert flashed a grin as Hesse fought to pull himself to his feet. "Off you go."

Saxon took a threatening step forward, but Zwingli broke in before he could respond. "Swap positions, now. The rest of you – is this a battle or a fucking sideshow? Eyes forward, soldiers!"

The men quickly turned back to their weapons. Hesse and Saxon glanced at each other, picked up their packs, and moved reluctantly down the line. Hesse passed too close, hand pressed to his bleeding ear, his sneering face inches from Gilbert's own. "You wait, Beilschmidt."

"Oh..." Gilbert narrowed his eyes into a threatening glare. "I _really_ can't." Then he smirked. "And that's _Corporal_ to you, Private."

"Shut it, Prussian." Zwingli gestured firmly with the pistol. "Move it, I've got no time for this shit."

Gilbert laughed softly, motioned for his team to follow, and promptly forgot about the two unimportant soldiers who threw him furious backward glares. Before he left, Zwingli grabbed Gilbert roughly by the wrist and pressed something into his hand. "I'd be a little more careful about making enemies, if I were you."

Gilbert looked down at the pistol Zwingli had taken from Hesse's belt – a good old Dreyse 1907. Pistols were hard to come by out here. Why was Zwingli giving him this one? When Gilbert lifted his gaze curiously, the captain was already marching away. "Tell _me _to be careful, crazy bastard." But Gilbert placed the pistol carefully in his jacket.

Feliks dumped his pack and put his hands on his hips, glancing around the new position appraisingly. "Well, this is nice."

Roderich hovered uncertainly, lost and unsure as he clung to the field phone case. "Should I… um…"

Gilbert pointed at the step. "Sit."

"Ex_cuse…."_

"Right, Feliks, you said you've read the manual." Gilbert swung himself onto the step and whistled as he inspected the MG42, perched on a rather battered Lafette 42 tripod. Now _this _would do more damage than a clapped-out old Karabiner. "Can you reload one of these things?"

Feliks leapt up beside him, rolling his eyes as though insulted. "I was in a combat unit, you know. I can change that barrel in four seconds flat."

Berwald gave Feliks a skeptical glance and rested his rifle gently on the parapet. "Four s'conds?"

Feliks raised his chin superiorly. "Four seconds."

Berwald did not look convinced. "Never seen one loaded under six."

Feliks shrugged offhandedly. "Yeah, well, you were fighting in Finland and it's so cold up there."

"Shut up, I'm thinking." Gilbert ran a quick eye over the supplies – not too many bullets, but enough grenades if the fighting got too close. "Right, Feliks, you're on reloading duty. Oxenstierna, I'm gonna need you to feed the ammo belt, but don't be shy with that rifle if you need it. Roderich, keep your goddamn head down."

A sharp whistle pierced the air and Gilbert reacted instinctively. He took control of the gun, just as a thick line of Russians advanced from the trees across the field. Shouts roared down the line as rifles started to fire. Feliks dove for the barrel case on his right; Berwald took hold of the ammo belt on his left. For one brief moment Gilbert's eyes flicked to Roderich, hunched into the step with his arms across his chest. But then that familiar Russian war cry twisted Gilbert's stomach in knots and forced his head into narrow focus. This was a battle, and he had more important things to care about.

Gilbert's hands steadied, his heartbeat even and controlled. "All right." He carefully tucked a cigarette behind his ear, his eyes fixed on a charging target. "Here we go."

.

The machine gun sawed through Roderich's head like a drill, driving all other sound from his ears, trapping his senses in harsh, relentless cacophony. He could feel it in his bones; taste it in his teeth. The very ground shook with that disorienting, unbearable noise. His team, however, barely seemed to notice. Roderich could not understand it. How did Gilbert not even flinch as he fired? How did Feliks know when to open the gun and replace the metal cartridge and slam the latch shut? How did Berwald manage to scan the field with binoculars, feed a line of bullets into the weapon, and occasionally fire a shot from his rifle without a moment's delay? And how did they seem so _calm _as they did it?

"How long was that?" Gilbert called during a brief lull, leaning back slightly as Feliks replaced another cartridge with lightning speed.

Berwald lowered his binoculars and shouted to be heard. "Five seconds."

Feliks shouted back indignantly. "It was totally four!"

Berwald shook his head, unmoved. "Five."

"Still under six!" Feliks shot back.

Gilbert nodded. "It _was_ under six."

Berwald lifted his rifle and fired a single shot. "Still not four."

Again, Roderich could only watch his team, with no way to see the enemy. Again, it was over so fast, and all he could do was lower his head and breathe in relief. At least his bewildered confusion was finally fading – it was simply too tiring to maintain.

The guns barely fell silent before Gilbert sat heavily on the step beside him. Roderich glanced sideways, and his chest turned strangely when he realised Gilbert's hands were shaking. Gilbert noticed at the same time, and quickly busied them by reaching behind his ear for yet another cigarette. He seemed to rely on them somehow. To his surprise, Roderich did not actually mind the smell. What he really minded was this deep relief he felt every time Gilbert sat beside him.

"You are going to run out of those at this rate." Roderich nodded at the cigarette.

Gilbert did not appear worried. "I'll find more. Always do."

Roderich slowly looked away. It seemed an unending cycle; once again, soldiers along the line reloaded rifles and filled ammunition pouches. Once again, it was astonishingly quiet after such violent noise. These small bursts of fighting were utterly bizarre – just as Roderich got used to the chaos, this silence fell again. It was like a constant controlled anxiety in his head and in his gut, occasionally rising and peaking, only to subside once again. "I did not expect these periods of..."

"Boredom?"

Of course Gilbert would misunderstand. Roderich explained, "Silence."

"You need to stop expecting, Roderich. Ain't nothing gonna be like you _expected._" Gilbert paused to light his cigarette. "But yeah. There's a lot of that out here. Endless stretches of bored silence, interrupted by flashes of fire, which pass almost before you realise they've been. It's like life, really. You spend so long waiting for something to happen, then when it does, it's over so fast you barely notice. But it's those brief moments that matter."

Roderich was speechless. Whenever he decided Gilbert was nothing but an uneducated brute, the German came out with something like that. But what really disturbed Roderich, was the realisation – he could not remember a single moment of his life that really mattered. "Do you…" Roderich asked without thinking. "I mean... You've had many moments like that?"

Gilbert breathed out a swift lungful of smoke. "Enough to fill a lifetime." His lips turned in a tiny smile. "Why d'you think I ain't afraid to die?"

Roderich was not even sure why he asked it, or why Gilbert answered. When their eyes met, Roderich shivered, and for the first time he realised just how utterly freezing it was out here.

Feliks fell abruptly between them and reached for his canteen. "I wonder when we'll get leave in this unit."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Really, Feliks?"

Berwald crouched on the floor and accepted the water from Feliks. He almost looked fondly amused. "Won't be gettin' leave fer a long, long time."

Gilbert rested back against the trench wall, one hand behind his head. "It's been too long since I went on leave. Early '42. Paris. I went to this movie theatre, in an alley off the _Boulevard Saint-Michel. _You know the type – small, dark, suspiciously stained seats. Naturally, I was really disappointed when they just showed some American rubbish called _Citizen Kane."_

"Any good?" asked Feliks eagerly.

"It was his sled."

Feliks tilted his head. "Huh?"

Gilbert took a draw on his cigarette. "Nothing."

"I liked _Casablanca_." Feliks leant on the phone case beside Roderich, looked up at him with a small smile and pleading eyes, and spoke in perfect English. _"Play it once, Sam. For old time's sake."_

Berwald made a small noise, which might have been a laugh. _"He don't know what y'mean, Miss Feliks."_

Feliks flashed Berwald a wide grin, genuinely delighted. _"Play it, Fred,"_ he continued with a dramatic sigh. _"Play… 'As Time Goes By.'"_

Roderich discreetly edged away. He hadn't the slightest idea what they were on about, and in all honesty was starting to wonder if they'd gone a bit strange. Gilbert snorted derisively. "Sappy American crap."

Feliks sat bolt upright and put an indignant hand to his chest. "How dare you!" he gasped. "_Casablanca_ was totally romantic!"

Gilbert's lip curled in disgust. "Romantic? He didn't even get the girl!"

Feliks groaned and flopped backwards against the wall. "He loved her enough to let her go," he explained slowly, as though exasperated Gilbert could not understand.

"Bullshit," spat Gilbert, gesturing emphatically with his cigarette. "It's all bullshit. Like that other one, that _Gone With the Wind._ The only thing that made those three hours bearable was..."

Berwald finished for him. "Clark Gable."

There was a silent moment of mutual appreciation.

"Who is Clark Gable?"

Three pairs of wide eyes regarded Roderich in silent disapproval. Feliks looked frankly horrified. "Bad Fred. What sort of homosexual are you?"

Heat rose to Roderich's face, his stomach twisting uneasily. "I'm... why would you… what makes you think…" By now Roderich was quite aware of these men's personal preferences. As for his own, it was something he'd refused to think of, and this was hardly the time to start. He searched helplessly for an explanation. "I'm married!"

Gilbert snickered knowingly and pointed a thumb at Berwald. "So's he."

Feliks ignored Roderich's spluttered protest. "Clark Gable," he breathed expressively, "is the second most beautiful man in the world."

"Second?" Roderich asked it to draw attention from himself, though he had to wonder why he was even participating in this inane conversation. "Who's the first?"

Gilbert straightened his collar, grinning. "Me."

Feliks tossed a mint at Gilbert's head. Gilbert caught it easily and put it in his mouth. "You're gonna run out at this rate," he said, winking at Roderich.

"Kociak gave me his."

"What a gentleman."

Roderich had to look away, at the other soldiers also sitting and talking, furious gunfire forgotten. It almost felt normal - well, as normal as anything _could_ out here. A few men kept watch over the trench with binoculars and ready weapons, but this did not feel like the same frantic battleground as earlier.

Until a single shot shattered the fragile calm. A sentry soldier down the line jerked backwards and fell to the ground, dead. Roderich barely registered the sight before the cry rang out. "Sniper!"

Feliks and Berwald dropped. Roderich's mind went blank when Gilbert grabbed him by the shoulder, pulled him off the step, and threw him to the ground. Pain thudded down Roderich's spine as he hit the floor.

"Get down!" Zwingli's bellowing voice carried over a barrage of disordered shouts and nervous bursts of gunfire. "Sniper alert, _get down!"_

Roderich fought to breathe from the sudden shock of impact. His head pounded, hazy and unreal. It took a few white, spinning moments to realise that Gilbert was lying over him, arms over his head, lips moving and red eyes blazing into his own. "… all right? Roderich, answer me, are you all right?"

_No. No, I am not all right._ Roderich could not speak, but he forced himself to nod.

Gilbert twisted his head. His breath brushed Roderich's cheek. "Feliks?"

"Fine, Sir Gil."

"Oxenstierna?"

"Unharmed."

"Right, good. Both of you, stay down until we know what's going on."

The edgy gunfire stuttered to a halt as the shouts gradually quieted. Roderich could not move, Gilbert's body pinning his to the ground. He could feel Gilbert's heartbeat against his skin. Roderich realised, with a sickening lurch of his chest, that he actually felt safer like this. Oh, God, no, that was too much right now…

Thankfully, Gilbert abruptly pushed himself away and leant against the firing step. Finally able to breathe, Roderich gulped air into his lungs. The heavy silence became almost unbearable, until…

"I like Cary Grant, too," said Feliks casually.

"Is he number one?" asked Gilbert, his voice a little rough.

"No, he's number four."

"What'bout Errol Flynn?" asked Berwald evenly.

"Ew, no, you're totally not serious!"

Roderich stared up at the grey afternoon sky in disbelief. How could they possibly chat so calmly at a time like this? He did not dare to move, but he hissed, "What are we doing?"

Gilbert answered like it was obvious. "Waiting for her to give away her position."

Roderich must have misheard. "Her?"

"Probably. Oxenstierna, catch." Roderich watched as a red Aviatik packet flew over his head. Gilbert continued lightly, "These Russian snipers are usually women."

Roderich turned his head at that, horrified. Just when he thought things could not get more barbaric... "_Women_ fight out here?"

Astoundingly, Gilbert managed to look amused. "Of course. Look at Feliks, he's doing a marvellous job."

Roderich narrowed his eyes. "That was very rude, Gilbert."

Feliks replied brightly. "Oh, I consider it a compliment."

The sound of a match flared, then Berwald muttered, "She's keepin' us down t'give em a chance t'advance. Gotta get her position."

"Yeah, I know, just..." Gilbert broke off mid-sentence.

Roderich's chest twisted anxiously. "What?"

A sharp, punctuated trilling pierced the eerie silence. Gilbert spoke slowly, distantly, as though remembering something. "I know that sound…"

Roderich suppressed his rising panic. "What? What is it?"

The high trilling turned to a clear, chirping noise. Just as Roderich realised, Feliks cried, "Oh! It's a bird!"

Gilbert's eyes narrowed in concentration, his forehead furrowed as he listened intently. He spoke to himself. "A canary – a Belgian Waterslager. Male, probably around two years old. Definitely domesticated. He's in distress…"

Roderich was actually a little intrigued. Birds - of all things... "How can you possibly…"

"Shut up." Gilbert raised a hand, listening to the frantic chirping. "He's about ten metres in front of the trench, to the right. Must be caught in the barbed wire."

An uneasy dread grew in Roderich's mind. He began to push himself up from the ground. "Gilbert, what are you…"

"Get on the field telephone," Gilbert interrupted, staring directly into Roderich's eyes. His own were blazing red. Roderich was starting to recognise that look, and it sent a chill of alarm down his spine. "Call down artillery on the sniper's position."

Roderich had to choke out a response. "Zwingli said to wait until he gave the order..."

Berwald's normally blank voice sounded unusually wary. "Beilschmidt, we don't know th'position yet."

Gilbert drew himself into a crouch against the wall and took his rifle from his shoulder. "Come on, Oxenstierna," he grinned. "You can give it a guess." He put his helmet on the rifle-end and raised it just above the trench line. "And I'm giving the order." A shot to the helmet sent it spinning. Gilbert immediately dropped the rifle, jumped onto the step, and threw himself over the trench.

"NO!" Roderich cried out, unthinking, and tried to scramble to his feet. Feliks immediately grabbed him by the belt and pulled him back. The silence shattered as all hell broke loose. Confused shouts echoed down the line, bursts of cover fire tore through the air; Berwald was on his feet and firing over the barricade in seconds. Roderich could not think through cold, choking terror. "Where... what... no..."

Feliks pushed Roderich heavily to the ground and shouted in his ear. "Call it down, Fred!"

"Where did he go?" Roderich shouted frantically, struggling against Feliks' hold and ignoring his words. "What is he doing? Oh God what's..."

"Listen!" Feliks gripped Roderich by the shoulders and shook him firmly. The grim urgency in his eyes was enough to snap Roderich back into focus. "Calm down, now. You need to get on the phone and call down a strike on that sniper."

Roderich nodded, forced back his fear, and reached for the phone case on the step. He could do this. He _had _to do this. But when he fumbled open the phone case, the numbers swam before his eyes. Roderich's blood froze in terrified confusion. "I don't know how!"

"Here." Feliks dove past Roderich for the case, swiftly turned the small black winder, and held out the receiver. Roderich took it with shaking hands. Bullets churned up the dirt above their heads. If Gilbert didn't make it back… Roderich felt violently ill as a voice answered over the phone line.

"_HQ, go ahead."_

"Good afternoon, yes, um, I would like to request an artillery strike, if possible… please…" Roderich spoke in a rush, unsure what he was saying.

The operator's voice replied sarcastically. _"Why certainly sir, no trouble in the slightest! If you would be so kind as to supply me with co-ordinates for the strike, if possible... please?"_

Roderich could barely hear over the cacophonous noise, but it was insultingly obvious the phone operator was mocking him. Feliks still gripped Roderich's arm, as though worried he would try again to run. Roderich was simply bewildered... how was he supposed to answer? Before he could panic, Berwald jerked back his rifle, snapped his head and shouted down at him. "Position, A-Brava-K, four-eight-two. Fire for effect."

Roderich repeated Berwald's strange words into the phone, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

"_Copy that, prepare for incoming. Good day, sir!" _

Roderich hung up on the operator's laughter. Almost simultaneously, Berwald reached over the parapet, grabbed Gilbert's arm, and pulled him into the trench. Roderich's world turned briefly black as the German immediately fell beside him, laughing breathlessly and clutching something carefully between his hands.

Feliks released Roderich's arm and sat back with an almighty sigh; Berwald crouched to his knees, his forehead drenched with sweat. Roderich was simply struck still. He'd never experienced such a sensation of relief in his life. It was all over so fast it didn't feel real; but through the relief, Roderich was utterly furious.

"That was _not _okay, Sir Gil." Even Feliks sounded rather annoyed. "You, like, scared the _shit_ out of me. How did you even do that?"

Gilbert just grinned, and Roderich's blood boiled at such infuriating arrogance. The mad German was not troubled in the slightest. "These snipers are all the same. It takes 'em a moment to make that second shot. You just gotta judge the time then hit the dirt, roll, feint left, and bolt."

Berwald shook his head. "'t's not that simple." His steely expression faltered slightly, both angry and impressed. "How'd ye know t'feint left not right?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Fifty-fifty, ain't it?"

"Oh my God." Feliks pushed his tangled hair from his forehead. "You should totally be dead."

"Nah. It won't be a sniper that gets me, will it, little bird?" Gilbert opened his hands. There, sitting perfectly still on his palm, was a little yellow canary. Feliks froze. Roderich blinked in stunned silence. Berwald leant forward curiously. The bird gave a tiny chirp.

"Aw," said Feliks, his eyes softening. "He's cute."

Roderich couldn't believe this. He could not handle this. A bird. He stared for a moment more before finally exploding. "A bird? A BIRD? You IDIOT! What the _hell _was that? You just... you just... you just risked your life for a BIRD, Gilbert! You COMPLETE and UTTER FOOL!"

Roderich was quite sure he'd never yelled so loud in his life; sure he'd never felt such strong emotion as this horrified anger mixed with this bone-weakening relief. But Gilbert was too focused on inspecting the canary to notice. When he seemed satisfied, he placed the little bird on his shoulder, where it immediately settled into the cloth. "Steady on, Roddy. You'll hurt his feelings."

"I won't steady on! That was the single stupidest thing I have ever witnessed! What am I supposed to do out here if you..." Roderich forced himself to stop. He took deep gulps of air, his hands clutching his sides. In the descending calm, he fully understood just how scared he'd been that Gilbert wouldn't come back. That he would leave him alone. After only a few days, Roderich was completely reliant on this mad German... and it was terrifying.

"Calm down, the lot of you," laughed Gilbert. "I'm too smart to be taken down by a sniper. Isn't that right, my little friend?" The bird warbled in reply.

"Here, Fred." Feliks pushed a canteen of water into Roderich's shaking hand, his expression concerned. "You're, like, totally white."

"I'm fine," Roderich snapped, though he took a long steadying gulp of water. He refused to look at Gilbert. Seconds later, a massive explosion tore through the air.

"There you are, little prince, it all worked out in the end." Gilbert slapped Roderich on the shoulder, a wide grin on his face. "Good work."

Roderich flinched from his touch. Once again, he was completely confused. He was certain he couldn't stand this man. He was also suddenly, painfully certain that he could not survive this war without him. He tried to form a response. "I did not do anything. It was Berwald who gave me the coordinates, and Feliks who..." Roderich trailed off when the little bird flapped its wings, turned a quick circle, and settled back onto Gilbert's shoulder. Roderich narrowed his eyes at it. It chirped back.

"A bird." Roderich actually laughed, this clash of shock and relief and still constant confusion overwhelming his senses. He fell back against the wall and put a hand to his head, sweat dripping from his hair. Gilbert sat back beside him, and their shoulders brushed.

"You're doin' all right, Roderich."

Roderich did not respond. The guns were still, and he needed this moment of silence. But slowly, low and rising and rumbling in the distance, the ground began to shake.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued…<em>


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